Part II: Approbation
by Azolean
Summary: Sometimes this life doesn't make any sense to me/ I need some time to heal and some space to breathe...Seven Channels: Breathe
1. Prologue

_**A/N: **This was based on another "snapshot" piece of a man torn from his place in life most violently. Given the fact that this story has re-written itself into this fandom almost completely already, updates should not take very long. _

_Here is where some of my OOC warnings need to be heeded. Again, this is quite obviously AU and not originally meant for this fandom. It is not how I view these characters, as I love their original versions dearly. But this is what happens when characters decide to take up residence in the same asylum as my muses._

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_**ac·cep·tance ** (k-sptns)_

_The act or process of accepting._

_The state of being accepted or acceptable._

_Favorable reception; approval._

_Belief in something; agreement._

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_**Prologue**_

Blood...

There was so much of it.

Even now, hours later, there it was staring back at him mockingly. The carpet, the table, the blankets, the settee...Watson.

He could see it dripping slowly, mocking him as it slithered in lines from the tabletop to the floor of their sitting room. He could not take his eyes off it, or the man from which it flowed.

His friend.

_Oh God...Watson._

"Really, Holmes," Watson sighed as he carefully tied off another stitch. "You're making too much of this. You've had worse by far."

Shaking himself thoroughly, Holmes turned his glare back to the man seated on the coffee table calmly stitching what appeared to be a cavernously deep, long gash across his ribs from just under his left arm to across the right of his chest. He shuddered again recalling how very easily that knife could have buried itself in those ribs and heart beneath. In a haze of shock, he had barely spoken more than a dozen words since that time other than to argue that Watson belonged in a hospital. He never doubted the man's medical ability, but the sight of so much blood and his friend sitting there so deathly pale terrified him.

Yes, terrified. He could think of no other word to fit the feeling of his blood freezing to ice in his veins at the sight of the doctor curled in upon himself on the floor of that house as if to hold the warm flow of blood inside his writhing body. Swallowing back the bile that even now rose to the back of his throat, Holmes returned his attention to the present.

"...and some rest, provided there's no infection, and I will be fine in a few days," Watson concluded.

Gathering his wits and putting off the delayed reactions of shock, Holmes rose from his chair to begin making the settee into a bed.

"There's no need for that. I can sleep well enough in my own room. Mrs. Hudson is already going to have fits when she sees the mess," Watson headed him off, tying off the last of too many stitches.

"In here I can at least observe you for signs of fever and infection," Holmes returned, unruffled.

"As if I cannot determine such for myself?"

Ignoring this, Holmes turned to help wrap the fresh bandages around Watson's chest. Moments later he fled up the stairs to retrieve a night shirt and a dressing gown.

"This really_ is_ unnecessary, Holmes. I'm quite able to take care of myself," Watson growled, snatching the shirt and dressing gown out of his friend's hands.

Feeling his own anger rising, Holmes tried to clamp his mouth down on the next words that came to mind.

"It's not as bad as it looks, and I'm too tired to deal with your case review right now."

"Are you implying the concern for another's well-being is exclusively your prerogative in this partnership?" Holmes asked coldly. "Or is it that I don't carry a wasted medical degree?"

In the act of shrugging into his dressing gown, Watson's back went rigid to the point Holmes wondered that he didn't hear it snap. A moment later he pulled it closed around his too-thin body and tied it off. His every movement reflecting rigid self-control as he very deliberately kept his back to Holmes. His face a thunderhead of fury, Watson finally spun with military precision as he swung around to confront Holmes.

"This, coming from someone who takes even the soundest medical advice right along with his latest dose of cocaine?"

Watson's too pale face and dark rings under his eyes did little to dispel Holmes' foul temper. Flashes of memory of those horrific minutes spent in the confrontation swirled behind his gray eyes as he now faced off with the very same man who...

"While you accuse me of toying with suicide, you may take the time to consider your own actions of late, _Doctor_."

Holmes' use of his title with so much venom stung. He had only flung himself at their attacker to prevent Holmes from being stabbed. Holmes, half dazed and breathless from being hurled across the room and into a bookcase, had left him little choice. Either he watched as Holmes was stabbed mercilessly, or he took on their attacker himself. There was nothing abnormal about it in his mind. He was simply doing as he had always done; provided backup and support for Holmes. Why now did it evoke such a violent reaction after all these years?

"If you consider saving your life to be suicidal, then I suppose nothing has changed."

"Bah!" Holmes waved a hand angrily in Watson direction moving back toward his place by the fire. "You really have need of some hobbies, Watson. This constant focus on my activities is maddening. It's a wonder I haven't drowned myself in cocaine to escape your constant-"

The slamming of the sitting room door effectively cut off whatever it was Holmes had started. Stung even more deeply this time by the obvious allusion to his presence being so unwelcome, Watson could think of no other reaction that did not involve physical discomfort to one or the other of them. Storming up to his room, he carefully positioned himself on the bed in preparation for another long, sleepless night.

Still in a fit of temper, Holmes waited only long enough to hear the bedroom door slamming above him before snatching up his Moroccan case. Even the anger at this point could not effectively banish the memories of how close his friend had come to dying tonight. He forced his shaking hands to perform their usual ritual as he filled the syringe with more than his average dose. Tonight he would need it, if he was going to find a way to banish those images and mentally prepare himself for another case come morning.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

Another case never materialized.

Watson did not feel the need to come down to the sitting room at all that morning.

Holmes wallowed in boredom and perused the uninteresting morning papers and post.

Mrs. Hudson checked on Mr. Holmes, who declined more than coffee. She checked on Dr. Watson, who requested water and sleep. She returned to the sitting room to find Mr. Holmes flinging himself angrily onto the settee he had cleaned up during the night.

She continued her rounds in the same silence that seemed to all but consume her tenants.

~o~o~o~

Through his bedroom window Watson stared hollowly at the now myriad colors that painted the trees outside. The air in his room, though not quite frigid, was cold enough he kept wrapped in several layers of blanket. Thankfully no infection had yet shown itself, but he was still in no condition to deal with Holmes. He was weak and shaking from a combination of blood loss and exhaustion. He wasn't quite sure if the nightmares he'd endured during the night-time hours were those of the waking or sleeping variety this time. Yet, the daylight hours and glorious colors of autumn did nothing to dispel the darkness he now felt.

~o~o~o~

Through the sitting room window Holmes stared down at the mass of people passing blithely by completely unaware of his observance. One after another he discounted them as being at all interesting criminally. Where had all his pretty little problems gone? In the last few weeks things had not only tapered off, but stopped nearly completely. Watson received more calls upon his time from Scotland Yard than he, himself, did. It galled him to no end that Lestrade still did not see the wisdom of consulting him on various petty crimes, but hesitated not a moment in calling in Watson for an autopsy.

The little man's infuriating insistence on treating Holmes as nothing so much as an obstacle to reach Watson had yet to cease irritating him beyond all reason. He could not begin to understand what kind of personal affront he had offered for the man to behave so. If Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard insisted on treating him in such a manner, they should enlighten him as to his offense.

Growling to himself angrily Holmes returned to pacing the sitting room. As the hour drew towards noon there seemed to be nothing materializing to occupy his mind and no Watson, either.

_Watson._

For a moment Holmes considered checking on the doctor, if for no other reason than to ensure he had not developed a fever or infection. The man was not in the best of health. Frowning tiredly at this constant return of his thoughts in such a useless direction, he flung himself once more upon the creaking tolerance of the settee.

That stubborn man refused to accept that there was a problem! He was still as thin and frail in appearance as the day he'd first moved in some thirteen years ago now. He ate only enough to satisfy Mrs. Hudson's constant mothering, and slept hardly at all. His late-night shuffling from one end of his room to the other was a near constant thing.

_At least he's not screaming, this time,_ Holmes mused to himself, recalling the early days of their acquaintance.

He had even begun to question the wisdom of involving Watson in his cases. The man had no fear, no regard for his own life. Time and again he had flung himself into danger where once he had counseled prudence. And yet he hounded Holmes day and night about the use of cocaine! Holmes snorted to himself.

He wondered if Watson had even noticed the changing of the season. He could remember a time when Watson greeting the changing of the seasons with the same innocent enjoyment as many children Holmes had encountered over the years. Now he seemed entirely indifferent to his surroundings beyond their own home.

Holmes could very clearly feel the anger sloughing off as it was swiftly replaced with a bleakness with which he was all too familiar. This time he welcomed it. He had done more than his share in recent months to try to lift the spirits of the one person he trusted and called friend. All his efforts had been wasted.

_The infuriating man was not himself anymore!_

While reaching for his cocaine bottle, Holmes wondered if he would ever see that man again.

Bottle in hand, Holmes started violently nearly dropping the precious liquid as the sitting room door opened abruptly. His thin frame wrapped in his dressing gown and all but wallowing in the afghan he carried, Watson spied the bottle in Holmes' hand and hesitated. Those eyes that had glittered a moment ago with something at least pretending to be life dulled to lifelessness even as he watched his shoulders slump in defeat. Wondering at his own sense of guilt, Holmes glanced at the bottle in his hand. Before he could glance back up, the sitting room door closed quietly as Watson made his way back up to his bedroom.

His temper flaring once more, Holmes hurled the bottle into the fireplace shattering it. He had had enough! If Watson had decided to live his life as a shadow of his former self, so be it! He was through dancing around the man and pretending there was nothing wrong. He had suffered his friend's changes and even tried to accept some. But this constant disappointment and denial was too much.

~o~o~o~

Watson had wandered down to the sitting room in hopes of at least warming himself by the fire, and perhaps talking Mrs. Hudson into a comforting soup. He knew Holmes had yet to leave the house, but wasn't entirely sure if he was otherwise occupied on a case. Not sure what kind of reception he would receive after their previous argument, he had hoped to offer some apologies for his own behavior and maybe engage the man in something approaching civil conversation.

What he found should not have surprised him. He should have known that Holmes hadn't had a new case this morning. If he'd been paying more attention to the movement downstairs he would have known Holmes hadn't slept. But he was in no condition to deal with it. And, upon seeing Holmes once more headed for the cocaine bottle, he decided apologies could wait until he'd had more rest.

He was rather surprised to hear the slamming of the front door minutes later. Wondering if Holmes was just out of cocaine or actually off to do something, Watson rolled himself into a more comfortable position trying to protect the neat row of stitches that now itched mercilessly beneath fresh bandages. He couldn't help wondering what part his presence had played in Holmes' current mental state. The man seemed to withdraw more and more into himself when he was not prying into Watson's life.

The stubborn man refused to accept that there was a problem! How many times had he returned to the sitting room to find Holmes glassy-eyed and distant? How many times had he prodded him into eating more than a hummingbird? How many times had he sat there listening to Holmes' shuffling all night long from one end of the sitting room to the other?

_At least he acknowledges my presence, now, _Watson mused to himself, recalling the early days of their acquaintance.

He had even begun to question how much Holmes was aware of in his cocaine-induced hazes. Did the man even realize how frequently he was using it? Had he even stopped for one moment to consider that he might overdose simply by not being aware enough of what he was doing?

_Did he even care?_

He could remember a time when his friend at least cared enough about his work to relish the sharing of the finer points of deduction. Watson could not recall the last time Holmes had bothered to take his deductions to the Yarders. Now he seemed perfectly content to leave Watson the writing up of a case closed and retreat to the comforts of his drugs.

And he even had the temerity to accuse him of needing a hobby! Watson grunted painfully as he shifted once more trying to find a comfortable position that did not aggravate the stitches.

Watson again felt his disappointment and mild irritation sloughing off as it was swiftly replaced with a loneliness with which he was all too familiar. This time he welcomed it. He had done more than his share in recent months to support and encourage the one person he trusted and called friend. All his efforts had been wasted. The infuriating man was not himself anymore. While reaching for his glass of water laced with a mild sedative, Watson wondered if he would ever see that man again.


	3. Chapter Two

_**A/N: **This is one that I struggled with. I can't even begin to say how much of a workout my backspace and delete keys received tonight. Does this chapter work? Any suggestions?_

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**Chapter Two**

Holmes could not pinpoint exactly when it was he made the decision. He knew he had done so. Otherwise, he would not be where he was now.

_And exactly where is that?_

He fancied the voice he could hear rambling around in his head like a ghost sounded a lot like Watson. But Watson couldn't have been there. Watson didn't belong there. Watson belonged in lighter places. He came from places where sunshine could create smiles and smiles could heal a wounded soul.

_Not all wounds, apparently. _

Yes, that was definitely Watson's voice. But _his_ Watson was gone. He knew a Watson. That Watson...

_Come on, old man. And you call _me_ maudlin!_

But that's not why he'd come here...was it? Or had he chosen to come here? The black waves of bleakness used to rush up in those unwary moments when his mind was not occupied. Like a separate entity designed to torment him, it would...

_Let's get you into bed, then. _

"Go away."

Was that his voice that croaked and groaned like something undead? Why was it so hard to breathe? The darkness was suffocating him! It really was trying to kill him this time!

_You're not suffocating, Holmes. Just relax. _

How long had it been since he opened his arms to that darkness? He couldn't remember anymore. He didn't want to remember. There were worse things than suffocating to death in the blackness.

"Leave me."

~o~o~o~

Watson heaved a weary sigh. He'd already lost count this week alone of how many hours he'd spent beside Holmes' bed. How long had it been this time? He gazed at the first light of early dawn just filtering through the pale curtains. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to spend a night in his own room. Following the incident that had left him with a long line of itching stitches, he had discovered Holmes all but unconscious on the sitting room floor. Holmes had done his level best, it would seem, to stay that way.

With Mrs. Hudson's help, Watson had been able to keep the man from at least dying of dehydration or starvation. But it seemed there was little more he could do. From time to time he would clean up the mess, or at least quietly assess Holmes' respiration and pulse. Even these intrusions, when noticed, were rebuffed violently and verbally.

Certain that Holmes had settled into drug-induced sleep, Watson carefully heaved himself out of the chair and quietly made his way back up to his own room. Vaguely he wondered how much longer this would go on. This was not one of Holmes' normal black moods. The sheer amount of cocaine he'd used told that much.

Watson attempted to scrub away the weariness and make himself at least presentable before heading back down to the sitting room. He knew it would not be long before Mrs. Hudson made her appearance with their breakfast, as she was all-too aware of the current state of her tenants. For a moment he sat on the edge of his bed, his heart feeling the weight of his helplessness.

_Mary..._

The sudden, overwhelming desire to see his wife, to hear her comforting words just one more time left him choking off a sob. He buried his face in his trembling hands.

He understood now.

God help him, he _knew_ now.

On an emotional level he knew why Holmes used the drugs. He knew why his brother had drunk himself into an early grave. He knew...

Taking hold of himself physically and mentally, Watson forced himself off the bed. His image in the mirror caught his attention. He nodded to himself. He may understand, but he would be damned if he'd ever give into it.

~o~o~o~

After a change of bandages and leisurely breakfast spent pushing the food around the plate more than eating, Watson contemplated the rest of his day. The idea of a walk in the park crossed his mind. Almost before he realized what he was doing, he had a journal in hand and was sketching. It usually happened like that. He would let his mind wander down some path and his hands would bring it to life in more than just thought. It had become especially frequent in the months since he had given up his writing.

Watson couldn't remember a time when there wasn't a pen or a pencil in hand or a journal on his person. It had all started when he was too young to read or write, but he wanted to be like his big brother. He made images instead of words. And then, the discovery of written words enthralled him. Later he learned in medical school that diagrams combined with his sketches of human anatomy helped him learn. In adulthood it was a past-time he had dabbled with, but never quite shared. For him, it was like a visual journal; which is where the majority of his sketches wound up eventually. He would tuck them away into the pages of his personal journals and forget about them.

Today he sketched the park in autumn as he remembered it so clearly from years past. Instead of a real walk alone in the very same park, he let his mind and hands take him down an imaginary path where the children chased a puppy and the autumn leaves fell like gently whispering rain. He could almost hear the whispers around him and the delighted squeals and giggles...

Hours later Watson found himself still sketching away animatedly in his room as he'd had to get some larger surfaces on which to continue his sketches. The smile on his face warmed Mrs. Hudson's heart where moments before she had been concerned when there was no answer to her knock. Having been the only person she knew of privy to this little talent of the Doctor's, she quietly closed the door and let him be. She had not seen the man that deeply engrossed or that happy in so long. Brushing away the shadow of a tear, she slipped back down the stairs to the kitchen and put away the lunch she had prepared.

~o~o~o~

Late into the afternoon Watson found his sketches turning his mind back to other subjects. Before he had quite realized what he was doing, scenes of Holmes and various crime scenes from cases over the years had begun to come to life from the tip of his pencil. Struck by one especially vivid memory of a more recent case, he set down his pencil. The journal he needed was still sitting on his desk in the sitting room. With the fading light of the afternoon, he decided to move his sketching to the more open, well-lit sitting room. He took up his personal journal and headed down the stairs with a bounce in his step.

Upon reaching the sitting room he was happy to see Holmes had even managed to make his way to the settee. Even better was the fact that he appeared rather lucid.

"Afternoon, Holmes," he greeted cheerily, heading for his desk.

The lack of reply from the lump on the settee did not deter him in the least. The baleful glare of a man obviously suffering, however, made him hesitate. Likely, with Holmes present state of being, he and his good mood were not welcome at the moment. Changing his mind once again, Watson thought it best to simply get the journal and retreat back to his own room. Journals in hand, he turned to head back toward the sitting room door when the next words that filled the silence left him frozen in horror.

"As I've already run out of cocaine, I have taken the liberty of borrowing your stock. If you're going out today, Watson, you might want to purchase some more. I would greatly appreciate if you would get some for me while you're at it."

Bad enough the man had taken enough to kill a normal person in the last several days! But to use the store of it that Watson himself had so carelessly left in his bag was worse! Watson's entire body went rigid as he shook off the sensation of having used the syringe on Holmes with his very own hands. In the war between fury and horror, horror won out. He forced his trembling hands to stillness as he turned to face this sorry wretch that he called friend.

"You would have me help you commit suicide?"

~o~o~o~

_ That voice! _Holmes thought, fury rising to the surface.

It was _that _voice, so utterly devoid of emotion that reminded him so clearly, even in his drug haze that the man who had spoken was _not_ his Watson. In a violent surge of energy, he flung himself to his feet facing off with this _thing_ that dared call itself his friend.

"Don't be so dramatic! You are not the only one—"

"I am _not,_ and you very well _know_ it!" Watson roared back.

"As a doctor, you well know there are better ways to commit suicide. I could do so at any time. Without your help. If it bothers you, then why do you not simply leave?" Holmes asked bluntly, all arrogance and disdain for this thing speaking to him coming to the surface.

Still pale and trembling, Watson took hold of himself visibly. "Because I would never abandon you."

That voice shattered what was left of his self-control. How _dare_ this thing speak to him as if _it_ was his Watson! How dare it accuse _him _of abandoning _his_ Watson! His breaths coming in heaving gulps, Holmes only regained control in time to see that thing pulling itself up from the floor with the aid of a chair. The blood dripping down the empty mask served to further infuriate him.

Somewhere far away, he thought he heard the voice of his Watson telling him to stop. Something was_ wrong._ The red haze of hatred and black cloud of bleakness warred in his mind for control as his clouded thoughts tried to reason out what was happening. He watched distantly as the thing pulled itself to its feet, staggering slightly.

~o~o~o~

Nearly senseless with shock more than physical reaction, Watson leaned on the back of the chair for support. He could not stop the quaking of his rebellious limbs. In some far corner of his mind a voice not unlike Holmes' tried to reason out that this was the drug. This monster that had just attacked him so viciously without warning was not Holmes, not his friend. In all their years together, Holmes had never raised a hand to him in anger. While the greater part of his mind tried to process exactly what had happened, he turned to look at his friend and those baleful gray eyes.

As if the eye contact had sparked something anew behind those no longer vacant eyes, Holmes' face twisted in fury; the barely contained rage so close to the surface.

"Get out! Get out of my house!"

"Holmes..." Watson's voice trembled, "you're not yourself."

"I know what I am!_ I,_ at least, have the decency to own up to my failings in life! I do not inflict myself on someone else as the sole purpose for living! Your existence is meaningless! It is _not_ up to me to give you purpose! I have my purpose! It is not the darkness smothering me! It's you! I don't need you! Get out! Get out of my house! Get away from me! Leave me alone!"

For several moments Watson's heart simply stopped. He wondered that he did not feel something. His entire existence had been reduced to this. Holmes was right. And, even in this, he had failed.

Numb inside and out, he summoned what was left of his dignity and marched stiffly out of the sitting room, like the coward he knew himself to be.

~o~o~o~

Mrs. Hudson heard the thump of a body above her in the sitting room. She could hear Holmes shouting, though she could not make out the words. Even so, she put aside her knitting and listened. The resounding silence was followed a moment later by the sound of the sitting room door closing and footsteps up the stairs toward the doctor's room. She had no need of her imagination to figure out what had likely just taken place.

Those soft brown eyes stung with tears for the second time that day as she moved back toward her own little parlor. The quiet, limping footsteps that descended two flights of stairs minutes later did not surprise her. When the front door closed behind the doctor, she did nothing to stop the flow of tears that blurred her vision.


	4. Chapter Three

_**A/N: **A great, big thank you to **Riandra **for all the lovely and especially helpful reviews!_

_**Girl'lock Holmes:** Thank you for taking the time to read this. I hope I don't disappoint!_

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**Chapter Three**

Weak, trembling, outright rebellious limbs refused to respond. His head pounded mercilessly making the gray clouds pulsating at the edges of his vision flash red. His back felt as if he'd been crushed into a box.

_Oh God! Not again!_

Gasping, twitching, and retching bile Holmes finally managed to open his eyes. The relief of seeing his own sitting room was almost enough to send him back into the sweet oblivion of sleep. Closing his eyes, he fell back in a boneless heap beside the settee, the leg of the table digging into his knotted back muscles painfully. Vaguely his mind wondered at the fact that he wasn't in his own bed. Obviously he had managed to thrash his way off the settee. And, if the throbbing in his hand was anything to go by, it had been quite a nightmare indeed.

His vision cleared and room steadied sufficiently, Holmes groaned his way first to a sitting position and then levered himself onto the edge of the settee. He spent a moment contemplating the more comfortable reclined position even as his mind questioned why Watson had left him in such a state. Before he had a chance to make a decision, his body decided for him.

~o~o~o~

The next time he opened his eyes, the room was flooded more brightly than ever with autumn sunlight. Even with the pounding of his head having receded to something approaching tolerable, his body felt as weak and shaky as a newborn lamb. It was a struggle just to look around himself enough to find the source of that infernal racket that had wakened him once again. He caught a glimpse of Mrs. Hudson's shawled back as she closed the sitting room door behind herself.

Moments later the scent of food made his stomach respond painfully as he realized he couldn't even remember the last time he had eaten. The vile, sliminess of his mouth coated in the residue of recent vomiting almost changed his mind. He closed his eyes against the assault of sensations and input his body was sending to his blurry brain. Surprisingly, Watson didn't materialize to start hounding him into eating and drinking.

Even as he struggled to pull himself into an upright position yet again, Holmes wondered if Watson may not be right in his need to cease using cocaine. This was not the first or even the hundredth time he had thought this in the last decade or so. But he couldn't remember ever having felt quite this wretched before, either. While his body rebelled against his commands to rise to his feet and stagger toward the table, his mind vaguely attempted to gauge just how long it had been since he'd felt this aware. Perversely, that acutely painful awareness only served to hearten him in his endeavors toward lunch and the return of his more normal activities.

All but collapsing into his usual table-side chair, Holmes spent the next several minutes again steadying the room around him with his head resting uncomfortably on his arms. When he finally did raise his head again, it was to realize his food and likely his tea were now cold enough to be unappealing. However, he refused to continue this way. He couldn't begin to count the number of cases he'd likely missed in his stupor. He had no intention of losing more. And the idea that Watson would come down eventually to find him greatly recovered and on his way to normalcy again made him flash a ghost of a grin as he poured himself a cup of tea with quaking hands.

He very nearly dropped the entire pot of tea and it was a struggle to simply place it back on the table as some rather horrific images of Watson, blood, fear, and something worse flashed across his mind. Closing his eyes and firmly banishing those nightmares to the back of his mind, he sipped his tea carefully. Feeling the warming comfort of the liquid slide gently into his stomach easing some of the more painful knots and cravings, he sighed deeply as he relaxed into his chair. His extended foot decided to send a message to his brain at that moment that something was obstructing its way. Curiously, Holmes glanced down, spying one of Watson's red case journals.

Thinking little of it, he shoved it further out of his way as he sipped contentedly at his tea. Not for the first time in the last few minutes his mind wondered again about Watson. He wasn't the most tidy of men, but it did seem a little careless for him to suddenly leave case journals lying on the floor. Reminded of the empty chair across from him, he wondered where the man had-

Holmes' mind seized up completely as his keen eyes sent a signal to his brain that it refused to accept, to comprehend. Those terrible images of blood running down Watson's deathly pale face while his green eyes pleaded for understanding pierced the fog. The cup of tea fell from numb hands completely forgetting they were supposed to be holding it. His ears refused to hear the sound of the cup shattering as they were already filled with his own voice from a nightmare his mind could not reconcile with reality.

Having no idea how long he sat there staring at those minute spatters of brown, dried blood his body had to react before something shattered. Every muscle twitching and spasming painfully, he collapsed into a heap right there in front of the table somewhere between the two chairs. His own chair forgotten, he forced his body back upward reaching for where his Watson should be sitting. Instead the drops of dried blood mocked his fingertips and mind as he shook with the horror of the memory.

Ever so slowly reality asserted itself once more. Somewhere he found the strength to regain his feet. Staggering like the invalid he knew he was, he stumbled to and then out of the sitting room door. Holmes all but fell bodily onto the stairs leading up to Watson's bedroom. He only barely managed to catch himself as he began to crawl painfully up the stairs. It never even occurred to his shock-numbed mind to call out for Watson or Mrs. Hudson. As he crawled the last few feet to Watson's partially open door, he never doubted that his friend would be there. Because Watson, his dear friend, would never abandon him.

_He said so!_

The words had come unbidden to his mind in a voice he dared not put a name to any longer. But in his heart, he knew they were correct. Watson was there, asleep, or maybe writing. He whole body twitched again as if lashed by an unseen whip at the recollection that his Watson no longer wrote anything more than case notes. Forcing his body to accede to his wishes, he pushed feebly at the door.

~o~o~o~

Mrs. Hudson started violently, very nearly dropping the duster in her hands as the door behind her rattled unexpectedly against the wall. Before her mind had a chance to realize she was hoping, that hope was crushed mercilessly. Crushed hope swiftly became alarm at the sight of the pathetic heap on the floor moaning for Doctor Watson.

"Mr. Holmes!"

"He's here," the poor wretch whined like a child pleading. "He's here, Mrs. Hudson. Where-"

Taking him gently by his trembling, bony shoulders, Mrs. Hudson forced those vacant, pleading eyes to meet her own. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson did not come back last night."

"Oh God..."

The numerous questions that flitted through her mind were banished on that instant as the man she had considered a son for so many years was suddenly reduced to something akin to a sick child. Recalling the possible reasons for the doctor's absence right along with why this man was in such a sorry state gave her the resolve she needed. Her gentle brown eyes hardened.

"That's enough of that, Mr. Holmes. Let's get you back to the sitting room."

His weight having dropped frighteningly in the last few weeks, Mrs. Hudson had little problem all but carrying him back down the stairs. Not allowing him the chance to fall back into the black mood he at last seemed to be coming out of, she forced him to sit up at least partially on the settee. Before he had a chance to voice a protest, she shoved another cup of tea into his hands and left a plate of biscuits on the settee next to him. Turning her attention to the sate of the rest of the room, she all but dismissed his presence until his weak, trembling voice brought her back.

"I have to find him."

Summoning all her resolve as a mother, she placed her hands firmly on her hips. "Dr. Watson is a grown man and can take care of himself, unlike some people I know. You have to eat, drink your tea, and get some rest."

As if only now realizing where he was and how he'd gotten there, Holmes' glazed eyes took on a sharp focus on the object staring him down formidably. His own glare managed to earn him a disapproving sniff.

"Go ahead then, Mr. Holmes, starve yourself. If you can make yourself presentable and out that front door on your own, I'll eat my shawl."

With that, she was gone and Holmes was indeed alone. He had only to visibly take in the state of himself to realize, she was correct. He would do no good to anyone in his state. Summoning what little energy remained, he forced himself to eat most of the biscuits and two cups of tea. His stomach satisfied, he was pleased to note the diminished shaking of his limbs. Almost the same moment he acknowledged this, he drifted off into the realm of nightmares once more.


	5. Chapter Four

_**A/N: **Of all the voices to jump up and make my muses caper in sadistic glee... *sigh* This little bugger of a chapter refused to let me sleep today. This was so _not _what had originally been planned. In any case, I would say something about enjoy...but I didn't even enjoy writing this. Made me fell rather ill, actually. But, it's done. And too late to turn back now. _

**_shelllesssnail: _**_ Thank you for taking the time to let me know! I really appreciate it. _

_**Riandra: **Don't say I didn't warn you. lol  
_

* * *

**Chapter Four**

Vaguely Holmes recalled having eaten and slept in cycles as the day turned to night and then back into day again. Somewhere in there Mrs. Hudson had helped him clean himself and change. The sheer humiliation of the situation was enough to make him swear never to mistreat his dear friend again. It was enough that Watson had had occasion to do this in the past, but this woman refused to cease treating him like a helpless child!

At some point during the night Mrs. Hudson had obviously settled him into bed so she could turn her ire upon the mess that had once been their sitting room. Desperately he wished to fall back into the arms of Morpheus or the embrace of the dark bleakness that hovered around the edges of his mind. Alone in his room he lashed his mind and soul over and over again with the images of his friend and what he had done.

He must have fallen asleep at some point. His next recollection being that of early daylight, he forced his still trembling limbs to do his bidding as he shaved and readied himself for the day. He would not waste another moment on himself until he found Watson. He had no idea what, if anything, he could possibly say or do to help his friend. He only knew for certain that he did not deserve to crawl to Watson on his belly begging forgiveness. He was not worthy of that friendship. And now he knew he never would be. He didn't deserve forgiveness, nor would he put Watson in a position to feel he had to give it by asking.

Facing himself in a mirror, Holmes found for the first time in his life, he couldn't stand the sight of the man staring back. Disgusted, but satisfied that his appearance would not at least pass muster, he entered the sitting room to await Mrs. Hudson's inspection.

He was not disappointed.

Mrs. Hudson must not have slept in quite some time. He could not recall ever seeing his long-suffering landlady looking so careworn. Her trembling hands as she set out a pot of coffee for two gave him pause.

_Could it be..._

Those red-rimmed swollen eyes and puffy cheeks crushed his newly burgeoning hope vicously. Straightening to face him solemnly, she spoke with only the slightest hint of a tremor in her voice.

"Inspector Lestrade is here to see you, Mr. Holmes. I will show him up, now that you are presentable."

Obviously she had no intention of letting him turn the man away. Nor did said inspector intend to give him the opportunity, either. The moment Mrs. Hudson opened the sitting room door, Inspector Lestrade patted the woman gently on the arm and closed the door behind her. Holmes had only enough time to catch sight of the dark brown leather bag in Lestrade's hand before he was rudely re-introduced to the carpet of the sitting room floor.

Somehow Holmes had managed to remain mostly upright as his legs folded beneath him. His eyes never strayed from the object in Lestrade's hands. Feeling the room receding around him, Holmes was finally forced to acknowledge the Yarder's presence when the diminutive man came to tower over him quivering in barely suppressed rage.

"So this is the great detective Sherlock Holmes?"

The venom and icy rage behind those words shocked something loose in Holmes mind. Even as his eyes confirmed that this was, indeed, Watson's medical bag his brain still did not want to accept what it could represent. Finally meeting the hateful glare of the man above him, Holmes struggled to speak.

"Yes, I thought your great brain might notice this. To look at you, I would have thought you incapable of coherent thought."

Not even bothering to attempt any sort of courteous behavior, Lestrade toed the detective like some sort of loathsome piece of filth. The look of disgust that curled his features had Holmes bowing his head. Never had he thought Lestrade of all people would have cause to look at him so. Never had he felt he deserved it more.

"What did you do to him?"

The ice in those words warned Holmes that his next words would condemn him in the Yarder's eyes forever. Every word for coward he could ever remember ran through his mind as he buried his face in his hands. He cursed himself silently.

I,_ at least, have the decency to own up to my failings in life!_

Holmes struggled for control of his raging emotions. Somewhere beyond the roaring in his ears and his haggard breathing Lestrade's voice said something he knew he deserved, but could not comprehend. Only when the crushing grip of those hands closed around his arms lifting him bodily off the floor and flinging him into his chair did he finally regain some sense of control over himself.

"At least now I know you're human."

Holmes still did not know what he could say. What could he do? What did it matter what he said now? He'd already condemned himself, even without the inspector's confirmation, he knew it.

"Tell me."

Holmes stared blankly at the inspector. Again his mind tried to comprehend what was happening. Even as Lestrade dropped the bag into Holmes' lap he could not find the words. The inspector stood over him, in expectant silence. Holmes was grateful beyond words that the man did not take the seat that he knew belonged to Watson and no other.

With still-trembling hands, Holmes opened the damp leather bag, noting the odor of the Thames that clung to it. Again he felt reality and the sitting room fading away to grayness as he saw what was in that bag.

"Oh no you don't!"

Lestrade's full-armed slap swung his head back so violently he dimly felt the impact the of the chair on the back of his head. That face an icy mask of calm still holding back the rage that screamed for more, swiftly brought him back into focus.

"Pull yourself together, man! You know him better than anyone. You're the _only one_ that can tell me if I'm wrong."

After a few heaving breaths, Lestrade finally reigned in his emotions.

"Now look, and tell me what happened to him."

After swallowing the bile rising in the back of his throat, Holmes finally managed to find words. His voice hoarse with emotion and dry as a summer desert in the Sahara, he asked, "Where did you find it?"

Seeing that Holmes was now at least somewhat back in reality, Lestrade finally unclenched his fists. If the disappointment tugged at the back of his mind made those same hands twitch...well, that would just have to wait for another day. For right now, he needed answers. And he had already begun to lose hope that Holmes would be able to answer them. At least now they were getting somewhere. Crossing his arms to keep from indulging in some more behavior unbecoming a Scotland Yard inspector, he stated what he knew so far.

"One of your little Irregulars found it in the muck along the Thames last night. He was headed here to bring it back to the doctor thinking it was lost when a constable spotted him. Recognizing the bag as Doctor Watson's, he brought it to the Yard with the same idea. For that matter, that's what I was thinking. Until I opened it, and found what you see there now. Nothing has been removed."

Nodding slowly as he took in this new information, he also heard what friend Giles was not willing to voice. They both knew that the possessions within the bag would never have been separated from their owner willingly. Carefully, Holmes withdrew the Eley, cataloguing the single spent cartridge. Followed by a wallet empty of all money, but still containing everything that identified the man that carried it. The last item he held tenderly in his hands, feeling the sting of tears behind his eyes.

"I've got every available man combing the Thames," Lestrade said stiffly. "Tell me I'm wrong. For just this once, I'm begging you to tell me _I am wrong._"

The lost look of hopelessness in Holmes' eyes as he finally wrenched them away from the objects in his hands told Lestrade all he needed to know. The man seemed to fold in on himself as he perched precariously on the arm of Watson's chair, burying his face in his hands. Holmes eyed the matching wedding rings threaded through the chain of the gold watch in his hands. He had no need of the inscriptions inside the golden bands to identify the. Moments later Lestrade found his composure and stood to leave.

"I'll let you know if we find the body."

The finality of that statement sinking in combined with the closing of the sitting room door was the slamming of the tomb in his mind. It didn't really matter.

Dead men had no need to think.


	6. Chapter Five

_**A/N: **I wanted to take a moment to thank all of my recent reviewers._

_**Riandra: **Yet again you inspire me and make me laugh. Thank you so much for all your help and encouragement! It means a lot to me. _

_**Medcat: **Good catch on that missing "e"! Thank you very much. It has been fixed. _

_**Jenevi: **Thank you. I'm glad to know people are enjoying this. _

_**Peaceful Defender: **Thank you. I'm very encouraged to know that my style is readable at all. ~lol~ I had some concerns in capturing the characters' various mental and emotional states without it turning redundant. I'm glad to know that hasn't happened, and I'll try to keep it from becoming such. _

_Also, I just wanted to take a moment to share something that has been a great inspiration in my taking the leap into SH fanfiction. I do not know the creator, but it is a good video for those who loved the Grenada series. And, more importantly, it got me started on Bond. There are numerous pieces that have been my auditory motivation while writing this._

_Just a quick chapter to keep people from wanting to kill me. It's gonna be a long night, can't promise another post right away._

_search google for_

watch?v=EoZif07yHE0

* * *

**Chapter Five**

They just wouldn't stop.

Her heart was breaking and the tears just wouldn't stop.

She is a grown woman! She should not be bordering on hysterics when, in fact, she knew nothing. It was just a possession. It was not the man himself.

What that abandoned possession in the hands of a Scotland Yard Inspector implied...

Mrs. Hudson wiped away the remaining trail of tears swiftly as the sitting room door closed quietly. She quickly abandoned her seat at the bottom of the foyer stairs and turned to face the Yarder as he made his way down. That one moment before he realized she was there told her all she needed to know. That desolate face of a man who had lost a friend was one she'd come to know all too well in recent years.

For a moment, Lestrade hesitated on the stairs. She could see he knew he'd been caught, and it didn't take a great detective like Sherlock Holmes to figure out what his expression had likely told her. Even as the tears blurred her vision once more, she found herself wrapped in warm, comforting arms. How long had it been since someone had offered her comfort? She couldn't remember anymore. And it really didn't matter. All that mattered was that for one moment, she was allowed to be the grieving mother all over again.

Lestrade held her for several minutes. He knew she needed it, as much as he himself needed it. More than ever he wanted to go home to his wife. There was something else he had to do first, but it could wait. The woman in his arms now needed what little strength he could offer her. As her silent sobs turned into deep breaths, he pulled back.

No words were needed. Shared grief has no words. Some wounds were just too deep and too painful to be expressed by something so simple as language. Mrs. Hudson nodded slowly as Lestrade gave her arm one, last comforting squeeze.

And then he was gone, too.

Alone in her foyer, Mrs. Hudson again become the landlady of the most eccentric tenant in all of London.

~o~o~o~

Sherlock Holmes was dead.

That was the only explanation his nearly silent mind could come up with.

He was dead, and this was his hell.

No black mood, bleakness, or depression could ever begin to compare with the hole he found gaping in his heart and soul. He could not comprehend the magnitude as it swallowed him up. His mental processes were obliterated by the grief that consumed him. The massive upsurge of emotions left him numb.

Somewhere far away his body tried to tell him he was no longer alone. The physical contact with another that he so abhorred could not penetrate this emptiness he now felt. The warmth of arms around his shoulders left him shaking with the contrast of how cold he felt to his very core. The once cold, solid objects in his hands had turned to mist and escaped his grasp...much as had their owner.

With vicious clarity and brutal swiftness, the absence of thought and feeling was replaced with memories. In a moment so clear it almost physically painful, Holmes remembered Watson,_ his _Watson. Every cruel word he'd ever spoken, every misuse of the man's talents, every danger he had put him through...

_Because I would never abandon you. _

These resolute words were spoken in a voice devoid of emotion remembered by a man whose mind now used it to torture his soul. But it was the memory of a familiar gun with one spent cartridge that shocked him back to himself in a way nothing else could ever have done.

_Because I would never abaondon you. _

Holmes' mind grasped that memory and the mental image of that gun with a ferocity he'd never felt before. The first spark of hope flickered in the void.

_ Because I would never abandon you._

Only when he heard the thump of Mrs. Hudson landing unceremoniously on her rump did he open his eyes. He was still in the sitting room? How long had he been sitting there? His mind was momentarily distracted from where it had been headed only seconds before, he took in the sight of Mrs. Hudson on the carpet of their sitting room floor. It took his mind a moment to catch up with the warm feeling of having been held and the sight of Mrs. Hudson's recently dried tears. The surprise and grief on her face finally broke the remaining paralysis.

_Because I would never abandon you._

The watch and matching wedding rings forgotten in his lap, Holmes' long nimble fingers dived once more into the bag and came out with another object.

"No!"

Mrs. Hudson's horrified gasp served to restore his power of speech.

"He fired one shot."

Horror faded into confusion as Mrs. Hudson began to grasp for herself the rapid thoughts flying behind the man's keen gray eyes. Before she could ask, he was again routing through the doctor's medical bag. His hand came out empty this time as a look of triumph and joy transformed his features.

"There's no journal!"

A moment later Mrs. Hudson found the medical bag in her lap when Holmes sprang from his chair all but flying into his bedroom. She had only barely managed to regain her feet in time to catch sight of Holmes' back as he took the stairs three at a time. She didn't even have time to voice the hundreds of questions that now ran through her mind as he disappeared out the front door forgetting to close it behind him.

More slowly than her younger, livelier tenant, she followed behind and closed the door quietly. As she found herself sitting once more upon the nearby steps in her foyer, she realized her questions didn't matter. Doctor Watson was alive! Only that possibility could have motivated Holmes so. Clues only he could piece together.

She was a grown woman! She should not be bordering on hysterics when, in fact, she knew nothing. It was just a possession. It was not the man himself.

But what that missing possession in the mind of Sherlock Holmes implied...

Her heart was soaring and the tears just wouldn't stop.

The sobbing laughter filled with hope just wouldn't stop.


	7. Chapter Six

_**A/N: **Another chapter that decided to ninja its way into the story, thanks to Lestrade's nagging. _

* * *

**Chapter Six**

Holmes flew out the door into the chilly morning air. The city around him had the feeling of only just rousing from its slumber. For once, Holmes could care less. The burgeoning hope that filled his chest was all that mattered. His mental processes working faster than he could ever remember, he stood on the sidewalk only long enough to catch a passing Irregular. It was a matter of seconds to pass his message on to Jacob, their recently ascended leader. Wiggins had already long passed on the title as he had grown too old and Holmes had seen to his employment elsewhere. Since then two others had shared the title of Lieutenant, and now a third had carried on the legacy Holmes had started all those years ago.

The mental weariness that touched him at this thought lasted only a moment as his mind decided where it was he should head first. The idea of telling Lestrade never even crossed his mind as he caught a passing cab toward his destination. If he knew his Watson—and he _did, _and would never doubt it again—then the man had started where he left off.

As he approached the location where he knew Mrs. Watson's grave to be, he was startled almost to crying out by seeing a figure standing there. He should have known it was too much to hope for as he broke into a run. Even as he skidded unceremoniously to a halt, Holmes reigned in his disappointment. The chilly look Lestrade gave him almost froze him in his tracks.

Holmes eyes, ever taking in all the details of his surroundings, slid right past the inspector to a sight that froze him with the horror of understanding all over again.

Three headstones.

Lestrade could see the surprise for himself painted across the detective's features.

"You didn't know?"

More than half lost in the moment, he only dimly heard the Yarder's question as he shook his head.

_ Three headstones. _

_ Three graves. _

_ Three different dates. _

Holmes' thoughts at this revelation chased themselves around his mind mercilessly. "Why didn't he tell me?" he asked distantly.

The look of disgust that crossed Lestrade's face as he turned to stalk away was enough to bring him back to why he was here in the first place. The rest would have to wait. And it _could_ wait. He _would_ find Watson...alive. He would accept nothing else. Tearing his eyes away from the graves, he chased after the inspector back toward the gates of the cemetery.

"He's been here," Lestrade stated, confirming what Holmes had already seen for himself.

"Recently, but not today, yes. You said nothing had been removed from Watson's bag."

"Yes," Lestrade clipped, never slowing his pace.

"There was one shot fired, and the empty casing was never removed."

"And his wallet was empty. He didn't take his own life with the gun and then put it into his bag and throw it into the river. I'm not_ that_ dense, Mr. Holmes."

"That is exactly my point," Holmes snapped back. "His most precious possessions, ones which could never be mistaken as belonging to anyone else, were all _in that bag! _But there was no journal."

For the first time, Lestrade stopped to face the detective as they reached the cemetery gates. The look of exhaustion and defeat was now tinged with something akin to hope.

"He's not...he didn't...What are you saying?"

"You know as well as I do that Watson never goes anywhere without one of those journals on his person. And they are as much of an identifier of who he is as everything else we saw in that bag."

Holmes waited a moment for Lestrade to absorb this information. The naked relief on the man's face finally sparked the connection his mind had failed to achieve in all these recent months. Heaving a sigh, Lestrade nodded as if to himself.

"You have theories?"

Filing away that last thought, Holmes replied with some resignation, "Several, but don't pull your men, just yet."

"Holmes..." the icy edge warned he would brook no games from the man, not in this.

"Please..."

The pleading in the detective's tone spoke more than even that simple word he had likely never thought he'd hear. Putting aside his feelings for the time, Lestrade asked, "What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know what happened, yet. But, at the very least, someone wants us to think he's dead. We need them to think we're still looking for a body."

Lestrade crossed his arms in irritation. "Why do I get the feeling it should be 'me' rather than 'we'?"

Holmes nodded in acknowledgement of this statement. "I will be overcome with grief and locked in my rooms."

_As if anyone is going to believe that! _Lestrade snorted as he unfolded his arms and turned away, only just managing not to violently wipe that dark smile off the detective's face. "Send word to my house through Mrs. Hudson if you're needing to keep things quiet. Otherwise, you know where I'll be."

"Thank you."

Lestrade's about face startled even Holmes into jumping backward a step. But the mask of cold fury on the inspector's face froze him in place.

"I will have you understand something right now, Mr. Holmes. I'm not doing this for you. After you let him think you were dead, you don't deserve such consideration. Whatever else you did to him, there will always be _that._ I'm doing this because I think you're the only one that _can _help him."

Taking a deep breath and forcing a measure of calm into his voice, though no less frosty, Lestrade continued, "And I'll have you know, he's one of _us_ now. If you ever pull something like that again, you had better keep in mind that Scotland Yard takes care of their own."

Not even waiting for a response, Lestrade spun around and left Holmes standing alone in the cemetery. For the first time in his life, Holmes discovered a level of respect for the Yarder that he had not anticipated. He knew the diminutive man was right in that he didn't deserve Watson; especially now. He did not doubt for one minute that Lestrade would bend the letter of the law to prove the veracity of that statement where Watson was concerned. Instead of the spike of jealousy he expected, this thought comforted him.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

Holmes wasted no time in starting out. He returned to his rooms to find Mrs. Hudson absent. He could only guess where the woman had gone. Briefly he spared a fond thought for the long-suffering landlady. Quickly changing into an outfit more suited to prowling the city unnoticed, he formulated a mental list of places to start. He still had no idea where Watson had gone initially, or what he had planned. Obviously he had been accosted. Yet Holmes had not been working on any particularly dangerous cases of late, beyond the unexpected encounter with a desperate criminal. Though neither his Irregulars nor Scotland Yard officials had seen or heard anything, someone out there knew _something._ And he was going to find them.

Before noon Holmes had managed to locate at least three places in the city Watson had been seen or visited in that first day. His heart twisted painfully to learn that Watson had been looking for rooms to rent. This, of course, led to his next deduction that sent him back to Baker Street for yet another change of attire. He paused only long enough to down a quick cup of tea and a handful of biscuits Mrs. Hudson had left for him on the table while he changed.

Fighting off the first truly noticable symptoms of cocaine withdrawal, Holmes managed to locate at least one place Watson had visited in search of work. Obviously the man had been making long-term plans. Even as Holmes wearily trudged his way back toward Baker Street, he was struck by his own stupidity. Resisting the urge to smack himself, he climbed back through his bedroom window for the second time that day. His thoughts had long-since begun to blur with a combination of exhaustion and withdrawal.

After yet another change of attire, he again left the house feeling refreshed and re-energized just as true night began to settle upon London. It wasn't a very far walk. Knowing his Watson as well as he did, it did not take much time at all to locate where he had been staying. The hotel was an average one, with little to draw attention to itself. Holmes had often used it in the past for his own purposes for that very reason. Cursing himself for an idiot for not having thought of it sooner, Holmes slipped past the various guests with ridiculous ease. It took no time at all to find which room Watson had been keeping. His trembling fingers as he picked the lock hardly slowed him down at all.

It wasn't until he was in the room with the door closed firmly behind him that he realized he was shaking from head to toe. Forcing his body to obey his commands was almost more than he could manage as he made his way through the rooms. Only when he collapsed on the bed, sweating and heaving gulps of air into his lungs did he realize how unspeakably relieved he was not to have found a body. He hadn't even realized until now that such a possibility had been crawling around the recesses of his mind.

He truly had no idea what had become of Watson. Despite all his theories, his withdrawal-clouded mind kept throwing various horrifying possibilities at him in a constant assault. Though, some part of his brain kept reminding him that Watson's gunshot would have alerted everyone on the floor to something amiss, he could not shake off the idea that he was going to turn around and find Watson's corpse just behind the next shadow. Holmes quietly summoned all his remaining self-control and pushed these images and thoughts aside.

Taking a better look around the rooms, it was only a matter of moments to assess Watson's belongings. There, mocking him from the table beside the bed was the brown personal journal. Across the room near the wardrobe was a discarded change of clothes that told the story of Watson's first night after leaving Baker Street. Beyond some mud spatters, Holmes found little he didn't already know or could have deduced for himself. Frustrated he began to dig through the available papers. There had to be something here to tell him where Watson had last gone. There _had_ to be!

Again his eyes fell on the journal. Again he turned away.

Holmes tore the day-old newspapers and flung the bits away from himself.

_Nothing! There's nothing here!_

Growling to himself, Holmes took to pacing the smaller confines of the room wishing for his pipe. None of this was making any sense! He knew Watson had been looking for work and rooms. He knew they hadn't been working on any particular cases involving anyone wanting revenge. He knew there had been no demands for ransom or compliance. He knew someone had thrown Watson's medical bag into the Thames. He knew...nothing.

The stiff leather of the newer journal mocked him from the table with its silence.

Seating himself again on the bed, Holmes forced his swirling thoughts to the back of his mind. Instinct had not failed him altogether in his search, but it was telling him nothing now. The chaotic mess of his thoughts was not making the connection he knew he was missing. There had to be something, some piece of the puzzle, he held but didn't realize.

Yet again, his gaze turned to that journal while his mind contemplated such a violation of his friend's privacy. His heart rebelled against the further damage this could do should Watson ever learn of the transgression. But his mind refused to let go of the idea that there might be some tiny, insignificant piece of information there that would lead him to Watson. Holmes had the journal in his hand even before his mind had processed what it was he was doing.

The sketches just inside the cover stole his breath. For a moment, he had to check the cover to verify that this was, indeed, Watson's journal and signature. Holmes stared in wonder, taking in every stroke of the pencil that had created such incredibly life-like images. His mind rebelled at the idea that his friend would not have shared such a talent. But as his eyes took in the various sketches of himself and others he didn't recognize, he realized that these were as private and personal as any written words. These were people and places as seen through Watson's eyes. No photograph could ever hope to capture the life behind those images. Holmes could not even begin to articulate the sense of hope that these random sketches gave him. Despite the cloud of grief that had clung to the man, his spirit came through clearly in these images. His vision, while still suffering from so much loss, was not clouded by that grief.

Still idly flipping through the pages, Holmes very nearly dropped that journal as he found his own rage-twisted face staring back at him. The next image of a man standing unspeakably alone in a black void nearly crushed him...until he realized it was himself. In spite of his suffering, Watson's real concern was for Holmes and his own suffering. And there were so many more. Overwhelmed again by a myriad of emotions he could not define, Holmes closed the journal.

He'd been here too long already. Stuffing the journal into his coat pocket, he left the room as silently as he'd entered.


	9. Chapter Eight

_**A/N: **Okay, these next two chapters originally started off as one and had to be broken up. I'm not sure if that tactic works, and I'll let you guys decide. Let me know what you think. As to the content of the chapters themselves...No, I don't see these characters this way and I cannot even begin to tell how much of a struggle this was. But here it is. I'm welcome to suggestions, comments, questions...anything to let me know how off I am or if it works. _

_Given the sheer amount of writing I've done in the last few days while completely ignoring other responsibilities, I hope no one takes offense if I'm absent for a day or two after this. Besides, I think after this, I'm needing a brain cleansing. _

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

_Son._

_Brother. _

_Friend._

_Husband._

_Father._

_Doctor. _

_I have been all of these, and have failed all of them. _

_What I am now, I do not know. As Holmes has brought to my attention only hours ago, I am nothing. _

_I have been confronted with my fears and failures, and my cowardice sickens me. _

_I don't know why I'm sitting here writing this. Maybe to purge some of these thoughts that have plagued me in both waking and sleeping nightmares. Maybe it is because I need to set down for myself what I have done, so that I may move on. Maybe someday I'll re-read these words and have a reason to believe that I can make it right. _

_Dear God in Heaven, let me have one more chance to make things right!_

_Maybe this will accomplish nothing more than at least keeping a record for myself of what a miserable mess I've made of my life. _

_As a son, I failed when my father made his desire for my future known. He wanted me to take up the family tradition of distinguished military career. The idea of killing people when I wanted only to heal was a horror to me. In my attempts to defy him by taking up my studies as a doctor, I could not bear his disappointment. Thus did I compromise in becoming an army surgeon. Though he and my mother passed away while I was on a tour of duty in India, I never forgot that disappointment. He'll never know what it was like for me to have to kill as often as I comforted the dying or fought to repair the damages of the swords and bullets that tore flesh and soul alike. My own injuries came as a blessing; I had not thought to survive the retreat from Maiwand. But, I did. And, at last, I was free to pursue my own career; if I could but recover from the damages left by both the bullets and the fever. _

_As a brother, I returned to find Henry a broken man. The loss of our parents and the responsibilities he was forced to take on were too much. The quieter things he could not bring himself to face destroyed his soul. I should have been there. By the time I was free to do so, it was almost too late. And, with the lingering weakness and having to learn how to live as a cripple, I could not burden him further with my presence. As my recovery began, I watched his decline from a distance. The drink had a grip on him I thought only I could break. In that, I failed too. By the time I was in any condition to help him, he had disowned me. As the elder, it was his right, and perhaps justified. _

_As a friend I had taken up with a strange flatmate in the form of Sherlock Holmes. Given our differences, I had never thought such a thing would come from a fellow lodger. He, who was always so cold and analytical, helped so much to put my own problems into perspective. I dare say, as a crippled former army surgeon, I would not have survived long without his eccentric companionship. I still don't know why it is that he eventually asked me to join him in his pursuits of justice. But I have no doubts that without that intervention, I likely would never have recovered as fully as I did. I owe him more than I can ever say. His death at Reichenbach Falls left a hole so deep I knew I would never recover. I failed him then, again in the calling of my profession. I had thought I failed the only person I've ever called a friend. _

_Mary. My dearest Mary. My love, my wife. _

_As a husband I like to think that I made her happy. I know we had had our disagreements at times, especially in regards to Holmes' adventures taking me away from her so often. I did not know she was pregnant when Holmes and I departed for the Continent. I fear my return and subsequent collapse was a greater disappointment than any apology could ever cover. She had been so happy I was coming home. I do not know how much of my care she saw to herself. But I do very clearly remember the day I became aware of her pregnancy. For, it was that which brought me out of my delirium. Terrified as I was of facing a world without Holmes, the joy of impending fatherhood was enough to make me pull myself together. Never have I seen Mary happier than the day I rose from my sickbed to greet her and at last discuss what she had waited so long to be able to share with me. My guilt alone was enough to motivate me into every attempt to make up for the loss. Those were, perhaps, the happiest five months of our lives. _

_It was Mary who insisted that a boy would be named Sherlock. By that point I had flatly refused to let my lingering grief mar this incredible time. So I pleaded with her to make it his middle name, instead. I am ashamed now of my own weakness. I think Mary knew my mind better than I myself at that point, for she persisted. Her final argument was that it was Holmes that had brought us together in the first place that finally won me over. When she gave birth to twins only two days before Christmas, our surprise was overshadowed only by our joy. Elizabeth Catherine Watson and Sherlock James Watson came into the world happy, squalling, and more beautiful than I describe. Mary had suffered much during labor and delivery and was left considerably weakened. Though she nearly died and would never again bear children, we were happy. With the help of a nurse, I all but gave up my practice to spend every waking moment with the three of them. _

_The hole left behind by my dear friend, Holmes, would never heal, but I liked to think that this was the beginning. _

_As a father and doctor, I failed first in not having seen that Elizabeth was underdeveloped. For the first three months she almost never cried. It always fell to her brother to alert us to her discomfort. Some three months after they were born, I sat rocking Elizabeth to sleep while Mary did the same with Sherlock. It was then that I first heard the wheezing. Much like Mary in all her quiet dignity, Elizabeth never voiced a complaint. Those green, sparkling eyes placed complete trust in me as I rocked her to sleep. Over the next three months as the air warmed and summer grew from winter, the heat had a rather opposite affect on her than that of her brother; whose inquisitive ways led him wandering to anything he could touch and inspect for himself. He always brought things back for his sister to share, but she rarely moved. _

_After weeks of watching for fever or illness, consulting specialists, and tormenting myself begging that I was wrong, it was confirmed her lungs were underdeveloped. If she survived, she would always be delicate. And there was no doubt that the harsh London air would only continue making her condition worse. I immediately set out to find a quiet countryside home for the four of us. It had been three months since I first suspected the condition that affected my beautiful Elizabeth, when I had finally found a place to open a new practice far from London and its memories of Holmes that still haunted me from time to time. The house had long since retired in sleep to escape the stifling June night air. Weary, but hopeful, I wished to check in on the children before joining Mary in the arms of Morpheus. _

_The stillness alone set my nerves on edge. Sherlock had always been a restless sleeper, and the only times he was quiet or still were when he was inevitably finding ways to get into things or trouble. Now he sat up in his bed, silent and still. But the absolute lack of sound from Elizabeth's bed left me trembling. With shaking hands I found my nightmare had come true. She had stopped breathing in the night. I don't remember much beyond taking her tiny, delicate form into my arms. She was so beautiful, so peaceful. Even as I wept, my soul screamed at the injustice that one so young..._

~o~o~o~

Holmes himself could feel something inside of him, a barrier he had created so long ago he didn't even realize it was there anymore cracking at these words. The sight of his friend's emotionally ragged writing having cut off so abruptly left no doubt what had happened. It did not take a great feat of deduction to know his friend had not been able to continue.

He was not surprised to realize that he could not make himself continue.

How much loss could one person endure before it was one too many? Holmes recalled how many loved ones he now knew of that his dear friend had lost. There seemed something horribly unfair. Of all the people Holmes had ever known, Watson least deserved such grief.

It was in this state of contemplation with the journal still open in his lap that Mrs. Hudson found him late into the night. Not a word was said as she set out a pot of coffee and some sandwiches. Though she dearly wished the man would sleep, she could not bring herself to disturb him in such a sorry state.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine**

_Though Elizabeth's death was a hard blow to all of us, most especially Sherlock, we at least had each other. In the days that followed her funeral, Mary and I turned to each other and Sherlock for comfort. Sherlock seemed almost to detach himself from us. The loss of his sister he felt most keenly. He had become so quiet and withdrawn that he hardly spoke for days on end. This striking resemblance to his namesake made me try all the harder to get through to him. Yet, those keen, green eyes sparkled with something I fancied was a sort of guilt and loneliness. The guilt I wished to keep rested firmly on my own shoulders. _

_In my attempts to draw him out and help Mary in her grief, several excursions were made to local parks. I think the remaining summer and early autumn were spent more outside than in. The weather obliged us by cooling without the incessant rain that plagues this city. As the first colors of autumn began to show on the leaves, Mary had regained some of her healthy glow and Sherlock had at last come to begin investigating his changing surroundings in earnest. More than hope, there was life again in our family, and in our home. _

_Unfortunately, it was not long lived. Once the weather had decided to turn, it did so with a vengeance. I cannot remember any autumn in years past where icy rain had fallen so early or so consistently. By early October the number of patients that passed through my consulting room had reached alarming levels. By late October emergency house calls were the practice of every man capable of tending the ill. Hospitals were overrun with injuries and illness on a level nothing short of what a mass disaster could have created. As weary in heart and soul as I was in body, I returned home unspeakably late wishing only for the comforting sight of my family. Not daring to wake them, I stopped first to check on Sherlock. _

_The rasping cough I heard from his bed shook me to the core. I had heard that cough from enough dying children in recent weeks to know this was not well. In an instant I had him in my arms. Not yet a year old, he still felt unusually fragile, but his unhappy squirming protest at having been so rudely awakened always reminded me how much strength lay beyond that fragile appearance. Much to my relief, there was no fever. But I also knew this was only the beginning. _

_The next morning I was forced to close my practice temporarily as I discovered Mary had not been spared either. She had developed a fever. While I struggled to combat Mary's illness, I called in a maid to help with Sherlock. Even as Mary began to recover, Sherlock declined steadily. His weak, exhausted cough had robbed him of his precious sleep that he so needed to recover. When his fever did develop, it was devastating in its swiftness. In the first days of November, he succumbed to fever and exhaustion in my arms as I sat helplessly rocking him by Mary's bedside. _

_Mary, still horribly weakened by her own recent illness, was little aware of the goings on around her as I made funeral preparations in those dark and cold days. It was for the sake of her recovery, I said nothing. My own grief I pushed aside to focus on her. I could not begin to imagine the impact on her already frail health. It wasn't until she was able to sit up in bed and ask for Sherlock that I at last told her. _

_My grief was nothing compared to hers. _

_I had known for many years how desperately she had wanted children. The loss of not one, but both of our children, was more than she could bear. In the weeks that followed, she regained only enough strength to move about the house, a hollow shattered woman. _

_As spring at last began to make an appearance, the sparkle of life had not yet returned to her. The warmth of the season seemed only to deepen her depression and sense of loss as she wandered through the blooming flowers of the park. Already frail, it wasn't very long before she once again confined herself to the house. Though I had reopened my practice, it was with the utmost reluctance that I left her alone. Even on the most beautiful day, there was little I could do to draw her out of her sorrow. I could not remember anymore what her smile even looked like. _

_Her decline continued steadily. She lay there helpless, so lost in her grief I could not reach her. For all that I had done to bring her back, she was lost to me. I cared for her body, even as she stared at me with empty eyes. _

_As a doctor, I failed both my children. _

_As a husband, I failed my wife. _

_Even as I sat there holding her frail hand in both of my useless ones, I watched her whisper her last breath as she went to join our children. Less than a week separated that night from what would have been our children's shared birthday. From where I sat on the floor, I lay my head down on the bed longing to join her. _

_I don't know how long I sat. But it was Lestrade who broke me out of my trance. I had already dismissed the maid for the night, knowing what was to come. Lestrade, having gotten no answer, knowing I was home, had no intention of leaving me alone. _

_Lestrade..._

_He had, on occasion, come to visit my practice with inquiries to which he thought I was more than suited to assist. When the police surgeons were left in confusion, I had been able to help in the past. I wonder what Holmes would think should he ever learn to what extent I owe Lestrade. Holmes never gave the man much credit, but he was a more than worthy friend and law enforcer in his own right. Even Holmes had, to some extent, recognized the man's tenacity. Little did he know how much tenacity the man possessed. _

_Lestrade had been an occasional visitor in the days following Holmes' death, but rarely. In the days following Elizabeth's death, he had developed a tendency to appear at the most random times; saying little, but very watchful. After Sherlock's death he was a quiet presence with growing frequency to offer support in his own roundabout way. Always he was there, counting himself as a friend I refused to acknowledge. As a friend, I had already failed in such a way as to ensure I would never make such a mistake again. _

_The day Mary passed away, there was no denying that Lestrade had become more than a professional acquaintance. I am ashamed to admit it, for many reasons, but the man deserved better than such a miserable excuse for a friend. I had long denied Lestrade as a friend, and yet there he stood never hesitating to put me in my place. He asked nothing in return for all those months he had watched and given what support he could. On that night, I remember little more than his rather forceful presence preventing me from what I wished. One phrase in particular during a more heated moment not only stuck with me, but took what little fight out of me that I had left. _

"_Well, at least you're alive to hate me, Doctor. If that's what it takes, then I can live with your ire."_

_The rest of the night passed in silence as I collapsed into a chair by the fire. Lestrade offered none of the empty platitudes one suffers in times like these. He said nothing, but only sat watching me in my almost catatonic state. Whether it was his watchfulness or his accepting silence, I cannot tell which I should be more thankful for. _

_For the second time, I set aside my overwhelming grief, and roused myself to do what I knew had to be done. Mary was laid to rest beside our children. I remember very little of those days, save for Lestrade's near constant, but silent presence. He said nothing as I closed my practice, but would not allow me to remain alone or idle for long. When I turned away the people I suspected had come at his recommendation as I had my own previous patients, he still said nothing. _

_As is the will of criminals, however, the needs of a friend do not stand in the way. I could still see the worry in Lestrade's eyes when he would drag me out of the house for a meal or two. He knew I had dismissed the maid and rarely lifted a hand for myself beyond the necessary to continue existing. Even my writing was gone. I had used it as a means of keeping Holmes alive and a part of my life. But I had known in my heart I would not long survive Mary. Thus I had finished and published the last adventure of my dear friend Sherlock Holmes before my wife succumbed to her grief. _

_Case after case Lestrade used to lure me out of my house. It wasn't long before I was standing in for the police surgeon and others of the medical field that surround themselves in activities of law enforcement. The days came and went, and I could not find it in myself to at last confront the grief or the sheer magnitude of my failure. I say this, because I know Lestrade had always seemed on edge during those darker times for me. Gentleman that he was, he never pried. But it seemed he always knew how closely I kept it contained. _

_And, for all his seemingly light-hearted teasing that I was beginning to look like Holmes, I had not the will to stop my own decline. Denied an easy, quick way out that night, it seemed I was still determined to defy that tenacious, stubborn man. Only once did he ever outright confront me about it, but he left disappointed. No harsh words could have hurt that man more than the quiet admittance that it no longer mattered to me. I could have stabbed him and caused less hurt. _

_And yet, he came back the next day as if nothing had happened. Nothing more was said. The months came and went as I meandered through my meaningless existence. I remember little of significance beyond the recognition that Lestrade was ever-watchful of my comings and goings. _

~o~o~o~

Even as Holmes turned to the next page, he wondered at Watson's blindness. Did he not at all realize the similarity to his own behavior that had so caught Holmes' attention all those years ago?

Holmes frowned slightly, feeling as if he was missing something as his eyes scanned the next page. This one, like the part he had just finished, again had the feeling of having been written after some indeterminate amount of time in between.

~o~o~o~

_Son. _

_Brother._

_Friend. _

_Husband._

_Father. _

_Doctor. _

_It has been said that work is good for grief. I can attest to that now, myself. I was alive, but so hollow during the time that followed Mary's death that even the warmth and goodwill of the Christmas season could not touch me. The snow was no colder than I felt inside. How I greeted the coming of spring was with an indifference I cannot ever remember having possessed even in the battlefield where detachment is necessary to survival. _

_Holmes. _

_His return was one of great joy. For all I had lost, there I was presented with a chance to redeem myself at least in one thing. The joy I felt at his return could not be dimmed even by my guilt at being so happy to have him back instead of Mary and our children. He seemed to reflect that joy himself. He had returned a changed man. In ways I cannot even put to words, he was more alive than I had ever seen him. Unaddressed guilt and grief were swiftly overshadowed in our next adventures. One after another cases came our way that filled the days and nights with something I could never have found to fill the gaps in my life on my own. _

_I could not begin to imagine the enormity of my folly. _

_Having denied myself time to grieve the losses of one of my children and my beloved wife, I had, instead, turned it into a dependency upon Holmes. I did not at the time realize what it was I was doing; but Holmes did, apparently. He has always been one to avoid emotional entanglements. Though he seemed warmer than he had in the past, I had no intention of dragging him through the burdens of my failure, my guilt, my grief, and my everlasting shame. _

_Holmes had often been accused in the past of being able to read minds. Even though I knew his methods, I could not deny how close those accusations were to the truth sometimes. I should have known I could not keep such things from him. As a gentleman, he could not bring himself to do more than question and hope for an answer. As a friend, he could not help but be frustrated by his lack of understanding and empathy. As a detective, he had no doubts where my thoughts and emotions were. _

_Thinking back on the last several months, I would like to say I saw this episode coming. Still clouded by my own emotional turmoil, I did not. Holmes was right, emotions cloud one's judgment and blind one to so many things. I did not understand the magnitude of his decline in humor until he was well into the drugs he used to escape. Much as I had failed my brother's friend and my brother himself, I saw a repeat now before me. I was in a position to act, but could not get Holmes to see reason. _

_How can I tell him that the flatmate he met so many years ago was himself a killer? _

_After all these years, I could not face it again. Coward that I am, I could not explain to him how I know where his addiction will end. Worst of all, he knew. He knew I had been holding on to him as a drowning man holds to a lifeline. In my weakness and cowardice, I had not yet dared to find a reason to live for myself. _

_All I have ever wanted was to be a healer. As a doctor, I could heal the body. As one who goes further to care for the patients as well as their families, I had the potential to be more. I've always interpreted a healer to be someone that cared for the wounds and illnesses of the body, but could at least inspire the emotional healing of unspoken wounds of the heart and mind; especially in the event of a tragedy. Doctors from all walks of life and all specialized fields stress that detachment is essential. To a point, I now agree. But there is a point where that emotional desperation to save a sick child is needed. _

_I am rambling now. I think this is the second time I've lost my place in my thoughts as I have begun to drift in and out of sleep. There is much for me to do, if I am to make any attempt to set things to rights. Perhaps some sleep will help me put these scattered thoughts where they belong. _

_Maybe tomorrow..._


	11. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten **

Somewhere in the nameless back alleys of London's East End four bodies lay in various unnatural positions. A fifth was curled in upon himself weeping and begging even as a demon towered over him. It looked human. It even spoke like a human. But the man begging for mercy and pleading for his life knew better. The demon stared down at this pathetic creature with as much compassion as a human would give an ant. He could feel the burning hatred behind those glittering gray eyes as they bored into his soul.

"If you do not begin telling me what I want to know, I will show you that there are far worse things than death in this world," the voice behind that pale countenance spoke coldly.

"Please! Please! I'm telling you! It was Mikey!" the man sobbed helplessly as the creature wearing human features pulled him to his feet by the neck.

"You will tell me exactly what took place, and who was involved, and where I can find them. _Now_."

The inhumanly too-calm voice edged in razor shards of ice made him shudder. The man did not even have to glance at the bodies sprawled up and down this little section of alley to find the motivation to do exactly that. His own bruises from the recent fight forgotten, Holmes listened to every detail this wretched excuse for a man poured out in between pleas for mercy. The idea of trying to escape never crossed the man's mind as the hand on his throat left him only enough air to breathe and speak.

He told Holmes the story of how a well-dressed man had made the mistake of walking into the wrong section of town a little too late for his own good. And the gang that confronted him for this transgression had learned the hard way that he was not as easy of a target as he had seemed with his limp. After beating the man to death and leaving the stripped-down body in the alley they had taken their loot back to a decrepit old house they called home. There they had learned the identity of the dead man they had left behind and knew it wouldn't be long before his partner would come after them for revenge. The loot was too easily marked and traced back if they tried to sell it; so they had to dump it somewhere. Mikey even had the idea they should retrieve the body and dump it too. Maybe that way the Thames would swallow up the whole mess and Mr. Holmes would never know they had done it.

Holmes did not even realize his grip around the man's neck was tightening until the sickening gurgle led to the man's collapse. Even as he brought his attention back from the horrible images this story evoked, the body went limp in his grip and he slung it away from him to join the rest of the trash littering the alley. Now walking upright and straightening the beggar's costume he'd worn to gain access to the alley, Holmes took one last glance at the rest of the filth in the alley before calmly fading back into the darkness beyond.

~o~o~o~

For a mind as cunning and swift as Holmes', it was a matter of an hour to assess the situation and come up with a plan of attack. He ignored the chilly rain pouring down in sheets, but was thankful beyond words it continued as the hours rolled past. There were too many for him to take on alone, and he had no intention of getting the Yard involved in this little interrogation. Before midnight Holmes had acquired the necessary items and brought them back to the alley just beside the dilapidated old house. Shortly before two in the morning he was fairly certain that all members had retreated to the relatively dry haven within the house.

He waited another hour just to be sure.

Only minutes after three o'clock the house was littered with bodies. Every room on every floor right down to the basement had been infiltrated by a silent predator. Dressed in black, Holmes made his way through the house unhindered. An hour later he sat silently watching the first stirrings of nearly twenty ragged men as they began to regain consciousness. He smiled grimly as they began to struggle feebly against their bonds. As Mikey himself woke to find his ankles tied to his wrists up behind his back, he gave a roar of outrage. Taking that as his cue, Holmes emerged from the darkness of the shadows in which he'd been concealing himself.

Holmes smiled wickedly as several of them began thrashing in panic at the sight of a shadow taking solid form. That rictus on such an inhumanly pale face did nothing to dispel their terror.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Holmes spoke in a tightly controlled voice.

"It's him!" one voice called out in panic.

To this Holmes nodded. "As some of you may have recognized me, I shall introduce myself formally. I am Sherlock Holmes."

"We didn't know!"

"Shut up!" Mikey roared.

The room fell to absolute silence. Holmes fancied he could hear the pounding of their hearts along with the ragged breathing all around him.

"Thank you."

"We didn't do anything," Mikey shot back defiantly.

"Gentleman, I would like to bring your attention to the smell that I have no doubt is as potent to all of you as it is to my own more delicate senses."

Mikey's brow furrowed for a moment in confusion. Given the stench of unwashed bodies all around them, it was not really that surprising it took a moment to identify anything else. But as faces once more contorted into masks of terror, Holmes could not hold back yet another sadistic grin.

"Yes, I have very thoroughly drenched the entire house from basement to attic in lamp oil while you were napping. Now that I have your attention, there are a few questions I would like to have answered."

"We didn't know it was him! I swear! He was just some toff wondering around!" one of the voices cried in panic, struggling vainly against his bonds.

Seeing Mikey clamp his mouth shut and let the others hang themselves, Holmes slowly drew out a box of matches. "I am well aware of the circumstances regarding the disappearance of Doctor Watson. What I want to know is where is he now?"

"The ghouls-"

"Gone-"

"We didn't-"

"I wasn't—"

"I didn't—"

"-know!"

Holmes' mind easily filtered out the relevant cries and information from the multitude that had started babbling in the hopes of saving their own lives.

"Enough!"

The whiplash sound of Holmes' voice effectively silenced everyone in the room instantly. "So, it is my understanding that you accosted him in the alley. He fired a shot, winging one of you in the arm. In retaliation you beat him to death? That was three nights ago. And not a one of you knows where he is, or what became of him?"

"What's it matter? He's dead!" Mikey finally found the courage to speak again. "Go call the peelers."

Holmes frowned darkly as he pretended to consider this as a possibility. Every eye was on him, as he well knew, as he glanced down once more at the matches still held in his hand. His gray eyes lighting up with unholy glee he smiled once more. Blood began to flow as the numerous bodies thrashed wildly against their bonds.

"No, I don't believe I will. You have, afterall, committed numerous crimes as a whole. And, as you said, Doctor Watson is dead. For that you will answer, now."

Holmes very carefully and slowly removed a match from the box.

"I hope you gentlemen will understand that I cannot stay to enjoy the fruits of my labor. Thank you for your hospitality. Good morning to you."

With that, Holmes lit a match on the door frame as he closed the door. He knew he would remember those screams fondly for the rest of his life.

~o~o~o~

As the first light of day broke the horizon, Holmes staggered to the settee in the sitting room. Still reeking of chemicals, he could not find the energy to change out of his filthy clothes. He all but collapsed as the cravings and exhaustion hit him almost simultaneously. Hearing Mrs. Hudson's moving around only moments after closing the front door behind him, he knew he didn't have much time before she would be bringing up coffee and breakfast. Cursing his weakness, he grabbed his Moroccan case and disappeared into his bedroom.

Holmes emerged several minutes later to open the sitting room door for Mrs. Hudson with much steadier hands. She said nothing, but Holmes could see the countless lines of care about her face and noted the slightest tremor to her hands as she laid out the table for breakfast. Not for the first time since he'd moved into these rooms here on Baker Street was Holmes struck by how much she reminded him of his mother. Her quiet dignity and often overlooked grace in even the most absurd situations made him again wonder about all the things he didn't know about this dear woman.

"I _will_ find him, Mrs. Hudson."

She hesitated only a moment in placing the last plate upon the table as she smiled softly to herself. Turning soft brown eyes on her tenant, she said, "I've never doubted it. But you will at least eat and get some rest before you do."

This time Holmes' smile was genuinely fond. "Of course."

Before Mrs. Hudson could say anything else, the ringing of the front door bell caught their attention. Holmes' chuckle elicited only a curiously raised eyebrow from the woman.

"That will be Lestrade. If you would be so kind as to fetch another cup, I will get the door."

The frantic ringing swiftly turned into furious pounding. Holmes only barely managed to refrain from smiling mockingly as he greeted the inspector.

"Good morning, Lestrade. Would you care for some breakfast? I imagine you were a little too busy for such this morning."

"You know full well-"

Holmes cut him off with a hand gesture as he turned toward the stairs and sitting room. "Please, calm yourself, Inspector. Let us have coffee and breakfast while we discuss matters."

Flopping almost bonelessly into the chair opposite Holmes at the little table, Lestrade buried his face in his hands propping his elbows on the table. Holmes caught enough of what the man muttered into his hands to raise an amused eyebrow. He would have to remember some of those for later. Otherwise pretending nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, he placed a cup of coffee before the inspector. He kept his peace until the man had taken at least one sip and steadied his shaking hands.

"As you have not brought any constables, I'm given to understand you are not here to arrest me for assault. So, what seems to be the trouble, inspector?"

Lestrade nearly choked on his coffee. Briefly he entertained the idea of his hands around Holmes' throat. "Those 'gifts' as you so termed them in your note, all came in quite happily seeking protection from _you!_"

Holmes could not help the same wickedly sadistic smile that crossed his face at hearing a distant echo of those screams as he walked away. "And, I take it all of the men in the alley were able to clearly identify me as well?"

Lestrade snorted. "Not all. Some of them were a little addled after those lumps you left on their heads. But it didn't take long to figure out the demon the man was screaming about matched your description. Once we could get him to talk at all."

Holmes chuckled openly at that memory.

Lestrade dry scrubbed his face as if to wipe away some of the exhaustion. "I find myself once again thanking Providence you are on our side. At this rate, you could clean up all of London in a year and put me out of a job!"

Holmes' bark of laughter did nothing to soothe the ruffled man.

"So what now?"

Holmes considered this question for a moment sipping his coffee contentedly. "Now, you call of your search of the Thames and morgues. I will need any available men searching the hospitals, clinics, and doctors' offices capable of tending a severely beaten man."

Lestrade eyed the detective coldly once more. "What makes you so sure he's alive?"

Pushing aside the thought that he could almost feel his coffee cooling under that challenging, but icy, glare, Holmes said, "He has to be."

Lestrade continued glaring. "If he was beaten half as badly as they say, he was in no condition to move himself. They say he was dead when they left him."

"No," Holmes said flatly. "We are not discussing trained medical men. They could have been mistaken. I refuse to believe otherwise until I have proof. What I _know_ is that he was likely beaten too badly to have moved himself, so someone must have helped him."

Growling in disgust, Lestrade pushed away from the table and paced toward the fireplace. Holmes waited patiently for the man to sort out his thoughts as he poured them both more coffee, breakfast forgotten. Finally Lestrade turned back to face him, every inch stiff with reluctance to voice the obvious.

"I don't want to believe it anymore than you do, Mr. Holmes. But what could possibly make you so certain that someone—in _that _area of all places!—would do more than strip him down to his skin and leave him there?"

Obviously Lestrade didn't know. Watson hadn't told him. He wondered how much he could tell the inspector before he was overstepping his rights even as a former friend to the man in question. He already felt damned in more ways than he could count in all of this. What was one more transgression? Heaving a sigh, Holmes gestured to the chair.

"Sit down, Lestrade."

Sensing something in Holmes' demeanor, Lestrade complied and reached for his cup of coffee while he waited for Holmes to gather his thoughts.

"When Watson took up rooms here at Baker Street he had approximately seven months left before his first review. After nearly eighteen months of recovering from the fragmented Jezail bullet injury to his shoulder, he was deemed incapable of returning to his career as a surgeon. He had lost a great deal of the dexterity needed in his left arm, though his hand had lost nothing. Initially he despaired of his career as a doctor. I introduced him to the Irregulars."

A sad smile flashed across Holmes face for only a moment, but it was enough Lestrade caught it. "And he immediately fell into tending their injuries."

Holmes nodded. "And then he tended to what family members were in need, and then their friends. In less time than it took me to build my clientele, he had made a name for himself amongst some of the poorest inhabitants of this city. Whenever there was illness or injury involving someone either too afraid or too poor to even consider a doctor, Watson's name was whispered.

"So, you see, there are many who walk the shadows of the East End that owe their lives or the lives of loved ones to Dr. Watson. It is quite possible that someone saw what happened that night. They were too afraid to stop Mikey and his little group of thugs, but removed him from the alley."

"They might even have taken him to their home," Lestrade added, understanding dawning across his features. "He might even be unconscious in one of those hovels..."

"Exactly," Holmes nodded. "So, it would benefit all the way around if the official forces were to make the more public inquiries while I tend to others."

Agreeing to this plan of action, Lestrade finished his coffee and quickly left. Holmes, knowing he desperately needed rest, refused to waste the daylight hours when he was most likely to find the kind souls that had helped his friend. Dressing the part, he quickly departed Baker Street back to the alleys of the East End.

* * *

_**A/N: **I'm happily blaming **Peaceful Defender **for making my muses giggle evilly at the idea of Holmes giving Lestrade something. See what I mean by "scary thought"? You just never know with Holmes mischievous streak. lol_


	12. Chapter Eleven

_**A/N: **Now that the muses have been awakened, they won't even let me walk away from my computer, let alone sleep! I've had 4 hours of sleep in the last 27 hours since I rolled out of bed yesterday. So, if there are mistakes, I'll own them before happily feeding my muses romance and love stories as punishment. lol _

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

_"...several blows to the head..."_

_"...ribs cracked and others broken..."_

_"...legs..."_

_"...maybe if..."_

_"...comfortable as we can..."_

_"...I'm sorry..."_

Voices.

Words.

Someone was speaking to him.

He knew they were telling him something.

He knew he should be listening.

He knew they couldn't even begin to comprehend how fast his thoughts were racing

He knew they couldn't feel his numbness and horror.

Holmes wasn't quite sure anymore how he'd gotten there. For several minutes everything outside the images imprinting themselves on his brain and the tearing agony in his soul ceased to exist. He found himself sitting in a chair beside an occupied hospital bed in a ward so like all the others he had ever had the misfortune of seeing in his life. Only this bed, and this patient were different.

Holmes wasn't sure what he had been expecting to find. He knew he would find Watson; that he refused to doubt. But it had never occurred to him that he would ever see his Watson in such a sorry state. For all their years together solving cases and diving into some frighteningly dangerous situations, Holmes never once thought he'd see such a heart-rending sight as his friend was now.

Watson had been in this hospital for almost three days. Bereft of identifying items, beaten beyond recognizability, he had been brought in barely alive. Even now, the doctors and nurses had no idea how or why he was still alive. They had not expected him to survive the first night, let alone this long. They followed the usual rituals of checking pulse and temperature and respiration without any real hope. In their minds, he was already dead.

To Holmes, he was a man in the middle of a desperate battle. As ever, his Watson kept fighting. No amount of loss or abuse could take the fight out of the man. The cold hand he found clasped in both of his own proved that, as the artery in the wrist pulsed slowly and steadily. He ignored the words of the man speaking nearby, as they meant nothing to him now. All that mattered was that Watson was alive, and Holmes would not let him give up.

"I'm here, dear chap," Holmes spoke in a voice barely above a trembling whisper. "I apologize for taking so long. It was not easy to find you. I—"

Holmes' next words were interrupted by a brief commotion that revealed itself to be Lestrade. Striding over despite the nurse's protests, Lestrade took in the sight of Watson for himself. Holmes said nothing, as there was nothing he could say that would make it any easier.

"I'm going to tell Mrs. Hudson," Lestrade finally said, several minutes later. "You stay here."

Holmes nodded, though he already knew there was nothing short of being dragged out physically that was going to make him leave Watson's side. Only when Lestrade was halfway down the row of beds did Holmes finally find his voice. Though he did not turn to face the man, he knew the inspector was listening.

"Lestrade? Watson would not want any of us to sink so low as revenge. I would recommend an immediate transfer for those responsible."

"Already done."

"Good man."

For a moment, Lestrade wondered which of them Holmes was speaking to in that last statement. But, by then all of his attention had returned to the helpless, broken man in the bed. He left more quietly than he had arrived, but his heart felt no better for it. In his heart he knew what Holmes' said was true. But he could not help that tiny voice in the back of his mind that wished Holmes had done more than simply terrify those men into confessions. He squashed that voice ruthlessly as he sought a cab and headed toward Baker Street.

~o~o~o~

The autumn leaves fell from the trees. Night turned to day turned to night over and over again. The temperature cooled as autumn waned. Little by little, Holmes' world narrowed to that little bubble of space around that bed and what he was convinced to be the most uncomfortable chair in all of London. Time really had no meaning in this place. His mind all but ceased to function as the misery of withdrawal and depression set in viciously. But he knew that for all his misery, nothing could compare to that of the man lying unconscious in that bed.

Holmes talked. He talked more than he ever recall in all his adult life. He told Watson of all the adventures he'd had before they met. He spoke of their time apart. He said all the things he cursed himself for not having said when Watson was awake to hear them. When he could think of nothing else to say, he lectured on music, chemistry, and historical crimes. He even degenerated to elaborating on Mrs. Hudson's latest cooking. When his mind ran out of things to say, he prayed.

Still Watson would not wake.

It had been nearly two weeks since the doctor was brought in by a couple of women working the East End. Holmes was at a loss for what to do. He knew he would not abandon his friend once again. But he couldn't help the feeling he was being abandoned himself. Did Watson not know how much he _needed_ him? Holmes recalled all the times his friend had voiced his approbation for those very same abilities that failed him utterly now. There was no amount of analysis or deduction that could help Watson, so it no longer mattered to him.

Then, one night, the nurses came to change Watson's bandages and they were dealt another blow. Even Lestrade sighed heavily in sorrow when they revealed the infections that had set in. Despite their best efforts, Watson's temperature began to rise. When Holmes finally did hear the voice he had longed to hear once more, he almost regretted his wish. Watson had emerged from the oblivion of unconsciousness screaming. Those screams tore at his heart no less now for his previous experience of them.

Even with Holmes' presence, Watson's screams degenerated into incoherent muttering in half a dozen languages. He had no doubts what his friend was living all over again. Whether real or imagined, it was a horror to hear. Even as he bathed the man in cold, wet cloths to help try to bring his temperature down, Holmes murmured comforting words he could not remember. He whispered encouragement in those moments when Watson fell quiet once again.

When his voice failed, he sent for Mrs. Hudson. The woman had been a more frequent visitor than Lestrade and his string of Yarders. She brought food and convinced him to eat. She brow beat some nurses into letting Holmes pull another bed closer so he could rest while she kept watch.

She brought him his violin.

It was this last that he could have hugged her for. His numb, exhausted mind had worked itself beyond usability. He'd spoken for so long his voice had begun to croak. He couldn't remember even a fraction of what he'd said, but he was certain that anything further probably even didn't sound like words anymore. It was all just noise in his own mind and ears anyway. So he let his hands take over. Not a single person raised a voice in protest as the entire wing of the hospital filled with his music.

On the fourth day of alternating speaking and playing, Holmes' bow screeched painfully across the strings when he glanced down to see two green eyes glittering feverishly back at him. He all but dropped his Stradivarius as he leaned forward to take Watson's cold, hand in his both of his own. Though the eyes seemed miles away, the feeble return squeeze was enough.

"Watson?"

"Don't... Stop..."

Despite the dreamy, distant expression, Holmes felt his heart sink. It was another fever-dream, then. Though he was glad to see the man's eyes open, he was not really back at all. He was still trapped somewhere in those hellish memories and nightmares in his own mind.

"You're in the hospital, Watson-"

"Play... Don't...stop..."

The smile that lit Holmes' face could have brightened a cavern at midnight. He had to swallow around the massive lump in his throat as he grabbed up his violin and once more resumed playing many of Watson's favorites. Never taking his eyes off those green glittering ones, he felt his own heart swell to see that barest twitch of Watson's lips as he tried to smile at the music.

Holmes had no idea how long he played, but he stopped as he saw those eyes struggling to remain open once more. By now it was late into the night, though no one had dared attempt to make him cease his playing.

"Watson?"

"Thank you..."

"You are going to be alright, dear fellow."

The sleepy eyes tried to focus on him. "You...will be. Just...don't stop...playing...Great heart...needs outlet...Don't give...in..."

Holmes listened with some confusion to his friend's murmured, seemingly incoherent words.

"Bach."

"You want me to play Bach?" Holmes asked, watching Watson struggle weakly to speak.

His head strayed from one side to the other briefly. "No..." Watson closed his eyes, frowning for a moment. "You don't play...You _are_ the music. You...I knew...first time you played...for me...Saw it...Your heart...great as your mind...Needs the music...to speak. Don't let go of that."

This last was spoken as a desperate plea. Understanding what it was his friend was really saying, Holmes could not control the tears that stung his eyes. The thickness in his throat prevented him from speaking even as his mind pleaded silently for Watson not to do this to him. He wasn't ready to say good-bye.

When Watson received no verbal response, his hand tightened weakly in Holmes' grip. Distant, feverish green eyes stared sightlessly into something far away. "Please."

"Yes, dear friend. I promise," Holmes finally spoke.

"Good..."

Holmes wasn't sure if there was more to that word, as Watson's eyes closed once more and his grip slackened. And, even if there was, he didn't want to hear it. Unshed tears hung in his eyes for a moment, before he blinked them away. Somehow he knew, Watson would not be waking again. Watson would not live to see another sunrise. Still holding Watson's cold, limp hand in both of his own, he rested his forehead on those knuckles. The tears dried instantly as his heart shattered. He could feel it almost physically as the darkness beckoned inside of him. He was willing to accept it now, to let it swallow him whole, but for his promise to Watson.

So he prayed once more.


	13. Chapter Twelve

**_A/N: _**_Does this first part work? Does the second part strike anyone as being redundant? My sleep-deprived mind came up with it and would not let it go. I so did not see this coming. _

_I really am going to bed now, even if I have to gag every one of my muses and lock these lovely characters into solitary for a few hours to shut them up. _

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

Holmes' bowed head rested gently upon the cold knuckles protruding from between his clasped hands. He lost all awareness of time in this position. He wasn't even sure if the prayers bubbling up from his mind were spoken aloud anymore. Not a murmur nor a sigh escaped his dear friend. There seemed nothing left. He knew Watson was still fighting, but that even Watson had known this was one battle he would not win.

It was only a matter of time now.

The stinging burn behind his closed eyelids heralded the coming of tears he wished he could so desperately deny. He didn't want to give up on his friend, but his pride and dignity be damned. He had to accept the fact that he would have to face life without Watson at his side. He had promised.

At some point in the early hours just after midnight, Holmes became aware of a change in his friend's breathing. It seemed...deeper...somehow. The ever so slight sound of movement on the sheets brought his gaze back up to see Watson's eyes open. Unshed tears and half-spoken prayer forgotten, Holmes smiled in relief.

"Watson..."

No recognition lit those dull, empty green eyes. As if looking at something far beyond Holmes, they slid past him. Holmes watched as the eyes tracked something around the foot of the bed and then up the other side. He shuddered slightly at the chilling feeling that the two of them were no longer alone. His mind rebelled at what he sensed, but could not see. Holding Watson's hand even more tightly, he let the words die on his lips as life, light, and recognition returned his his dearest friend's features.

With the faintest of smiles upon his healing face, Watson spoke in a distant voice made weak by exhaustion and fever. "Mary... I've missed you so much."

Holmes own eyes widened in shock. His heart screamed at this was no fever dream. His heart nearly stopped as he realized what he was seeing—or, rather, _not_ seeing; his mind informed him once more. He now held no doubts that they were no longer alone, and Watson was leaving him. Finally, the first tear rolled slowly down his face as he bit back words that welled up from his heart. Desperately he wished to beg his dearest friend to turn away, to come back to him.

But after all that had happened, could he really be so cruel as to deny Watson his reunion with his beloved wife and children?

Watson's eyes closed as if turning into the comfort of a hand cradling his face. He murmured softly, "I'll be with you soon."

Though these words pierced viciously straight into Holmes soul leaving his heart aching, he could not turn away. He watched as Watson's eyes flew open once more to stare at a face only he could see with mixed confusion and hurt. There was no doubt he was listening intently to a voice only he could hear, but Holmes had no doubt it was one all too familiar to the both of them.

"But why?" Watson whispered painfully as tears formed in those green eyes.

Slowly the eyes closed once more as if to conceal the agony behind them while two tears track unheeded down his cheeks. As he nodded in acceptance. "You'll wait for me?" he pleaded with heart-wrenching desperation.

"I promise," he finally said.

Again those soul-filled green eyes tracked movement only he could see as something came around the bed. Holmes never looked up, never took his eyes off those of his dearest friend. However, as those eyes drew closer and closer to his own, he could almost feel that unseen presence approach him. For one, brief moment, he thought he felt a grip on his shoulder.

"Thank you," he whispered to the empty air.

And then the warm presence was gone, the moment shattered as if it had never happened. It was only the absence of that warmth that made it so noticeable, as if heat taken out of a summer day by the loss of the sun.

Watson blinked. As if coming out of a fog, his eyes settled upon Holmes tear-streaked face and slowly began to focus.

"Holmes?" he whispered in some confusion.

Choked by tears he refused to let fall, Holmes could only nod; still more than half-stunned by the miracle and gift he had just witnessed. Slowly those painfully familiar green eyes took on a haunted look steeped in soul-wrenching agony. Deliberately, he withdrew his hand and turned his head away.

"Go home," was all he said.

Sobered by this painful rejection, Holmes felt his shoulders slump. Though he was glad to know somewhere deep inside that Watson would live, he could not help feeling stung. Recalling why it was Watson was now here in the first place, Holmes nodded to himself in acceptance. Without a word, he left his chair for the first time in two weeks.

The night seemed unnaturally silent as Holmes carried his violin back to Baker Street. The near freezing rain glistened in the lamplight beyond his shadowed eyes. Exhausted to the point of delirium, hurt to the point of numbness, it was all he could do to find a cab that early. As the first hues of gray tinted the eastern sky, he crawled into his own bed. The joy of knowing Watson had lived to see another sunrise was not dimmed in the least by the wave of emotions that left him wrung out and feeling less than human. At some point before true dawn came, he fell into a slumber tormented by dreams.

~o~o~o~

Holmes spent that entire first day in his own bed, not even moving to eat or drink anything. At times he slept. But mostly he wondered what, if anything, he could now do to rectify his situation with Watson. Nothing had ever seemed so final as Watson's dismissal the previous night. He deserved it, and he knew it. But where did they go from here? Would Watson ever want to see him again? Holmes could not find fault with the man if he didn't, and that made the situation all the more unbearable.

Mrs. Hudson was not about to let this continue. By evening she had made her rounds to visit the doctor to find him resting comfortably. The fever had broken just before sunrise and his body was healing itself. The doctors and nurses whispered in the corridors of miracles. Mrs. Hudson herself stopped on the way home to give thanks to Providence for sparing this man she thought of as a son. She was not about to let her other "son" pout alone in his room when Watson was obviously going to need him.

She barged into Holmes' room with little more than a cursory tap on the door. She was almost surprised it wasn't locked, but thankful as well. Placing her hands on her hips, she planted herself in front of Holmes' glazed gray eyes. Before she could give voice to her ire, Holmes cut her off in a voice bereft of all the hope and happiness he should have been feeling.

"He told me to leave."

Mrs. Hudson's own irritation with the man before her melted. She knew she didn't have the heart for this confrontation. And she sensed that Holmes would not welcome her interference. Perhaps other methods would have better effect. She made sure he had tea and sandwhiches—which he studiously ignored as he rolled over pointedly—before quietly leaving his room.

Toward the middle of the afternoon the next day, Lestrade became the second unwelcome guest to Holmes' private sanctum. Much as had Mrs. Hudson, he planted himself directly in Holmes' line of sight with his arms crossed as if to keep from reaching out to bodily drag the man out of his own bed.

After Lestrade's initial assessment deteriorated into a cold fury, Holmes surprised him in such a way as to leave him speechless.

"I never did thank you properly," Holmes finally said, deliberately turning his gaze toward the window and away from that frosty glare.

Lestrade made his contempt visible as he continued to glare at the back of the detective's head. Not for the first time he contemplated more physical means of dealing with the man that dared to call himself friend to the doctor still lying miserably in the hospital.

"I know it is you I have to thank for Watson still being alive when I returned."

The slight gasp that came from Lestrade standing across the room let him knew he'd hit his mark. Though he and Watson had never discussed in great detail what had happened during his absence, Holmes knew from having read Watson's journal how much the inspector had done for his friend in those dark days.

"What the devil are you on about?"

"While I was...away...you kept him alive. After he lost Mary and his children, he would have followed, had you let him," Holmes said, still not able to face Lestrade.

"Oh, he told you that, did he? Badger you into-"

"Nothing, Lestrade," Holmes interrupted, finally rising to a sitting position on his bed to face the Yarder. "He badgered me into nothing. But I've seen the way you are around him, always watching out, waiting to see if I would do it again. How deeply could I wound the man before it would show on the surface? How could he have ever forgiven me when I came back, let alone for yet another offense? You're waiting, just waiting for me to prove myself the heartless automaton he's described me to be."

Lestrade's mouth opened only once as if to formulate a denial. Finally a cold mask settled into place that Holmes had only ever before seen directed at the filthiest form of criminals. "Yes, Mr. Holmes, I do not deny it. He is a good man, as good as they come. That man deserves better than you have _ever_ given him. And waltzing back into his life only when he's wasted away to half the man he used to be..."

Holmes wondered that he could hear the man's teeth grinding as he visibly took control of himself. "In that, I don't trust you. Nor likely will I ever. Sitting here in your own comfy bed wallowing in your own self-created misery while he's alone in that miserable place is just like you. I will never understand the heart that he possesses, or how great it must be to still give a damn that you live and breathe.

"But then, I've never denied he was the better man."

"Neither have I," Holmes returned, softly.

"Well, so be it then. I have nothing more to say to you. I'm off."

Without even waiting for acknowledgment, Lestrade slammed the bedroom door forcefully on his way out. Once more surrounded by memories and the darkness of his own thoughts, Holmes lay sleeplessly in his own bed. He did not need to sleep anymore for the nightmares to find him.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

A little more than two weeks of healing and Watson could not help the frustration that crept up on him at the thought of his current circumstances. It was difficult enough learning he'd lost two whole weeks. But now there was no doubt he would lose several more as his body healed itself. Despite the numerous lumps to his skull, his memories seemed otherwise intact. He could easily recall everything up to the melee that had left him unconscious. He even remembered a great deal of Holmes' music and what had happened after. The question remained: What was he to do about all of it?

He had set out to start over, to try to find a way to make things right. He wondered if he even _could_ make things right, but even that doubt had not been enough to stop him from trying. Now he sat alone in the hospital staring out the window wrapped in his thoughts and they always came back to the same questions over and over. Holmes had been there. He had seemed to listen. So where was he now? Why had he left? Had he ever really been there or had that part just been another fever dream his mind had conjured knowing he was going to die? Maybe it had just been a way for him to find closure when he realized he wasn't going to survive another night.

After two days of these thoughts chasing themselves around his head over and over in a frustrating circle, Watson had begun to question many things. Mrs. Hudson had been by, and Lestrade. Neither would say anything about Holmes, and Watson didn't feel he had a right to ask. He didn't blame Holmes, really. This whole mess had been his own fault. If he'd only realized sooner that he was placing so much unnecessary pressure on his dear friend...

But how to make Holmes understand now seemed almost impossible. He'd confronted the truth of his own failings and mistakes. Even at the best of times Holmes had never been receptive to emotional confrontations. It was the whole reason Watson had kept so much to himself these last several months. How could he make Holmes understand what he was trying to do to make it right without first having to explain why he'd ended up as he was in the first place?

Facing Holmes, especially now, was something he was not mentally or emotionally prepared for yet. He knew he would need time to re-order his thoughts into something approaching a rational and detached manner his friend would appreciate. And his current state of physical weakness was most assuredly not helping. He knew it would put him in an even more dependent frame of mind. Disgusted with himself and his situation, he could not even begin to fathom what his next move to be. The farthest he could plan at this point was trying to find a way to get out of this hospital. More than anything at that moment, he just wanted a quiet place he could be more comfortable and deal with all these things alone.

~o~o~o~

The forlorn figure wrapped in blankets staring unseeing out of a nearby window didn't even realize he was being observed.

"They tell me you're not eating."

The scowl Watson had not realized he was directing out the window transformed into mute shock as he turned to see Holmes standing respectfully a few feet away, a brown bag in one hand and walking stick in the other.

A moment later Watson carefully dropped his expressionless mask into place as he recovered enough to answer. "I was not aware my eating habits were being monitored so closely."

To anyone else, Holmes' expression didn't change. Only to one who knew him so well as Watson was there any visible difference. It was not anything he could name specifically, but the fact that he had received a verbal response at all—even in such a hollow voice made carefully devoid of emotion—turned his somewhat fearful expression into one softened by something akin to hope. Finally meeting Watson's gaze, Holmes' asked silent question to approach. Though Watson nodded almost instantly, Holmes could not have missed the slightest hesitation in the gesture and the carefully wary expression that took over Watson's features.

Fetching a nearby chair, Holmes sat the brown bag beside him on the floor as he settled himself. His mind spinning more rapidly than he could ever remember, he attempted yet again to organize his thoughts. He knew the slightest mistake on his part would be the end. All his attempts to repair the situation and make things right with his dear friend would be lost in this one encounter if he slipped even the slightest. Never before could he remember being so afraid at something so simple as speaking to another person.

Of course, he'd never before been in a position to have to beg forgiveness for anything, either.

"You're looking better," Watson finally stated, eying his friend carefully; the wary expression never leaving his eyes.

"As are you, I'm glad to see," Holmes said sincerely, if softly.

With a snort of amusement, Watson again turned his gaze back out the window. "I imagine anything was better than the last time you saw me."

Holmes, not really feeling the humor at this point, was put even further off by this darker humor his friend now displayed. Though, in truth, he could not blame him.

"Starvation or eviction?"

Holmes had yet to even formulate a response to the last statement when this question threw him completely off. "Beg pardon?"

Never turning his eyes from the window in the opposite direction Holmes was now sitting, he clarified, "I take it Mrs. Hudson sent you, as a result of not coming voluntarily. Given your state of health, you're not suffering any injuries or illnesses that would have kept you away."

Holmes was gratified to hear at least some concern tinge his friends words, despite their emotionless delivery.

"Therefore, something must have inspired your presence here. Knowing Mrs. Hudson, either she burned your breakfast beyond edibility, or she threatened to evict you—again."

Now it was Holmes' turn to snort in amusement. "Well, if you must know, it was neither. I was taking the advice of a doctor I had the pleasure of living with, who seemed to think that sleep and food were essential to my health."

Though this was delivered with all of Holmes' usual dry humor, Watson's expression of wary uncertainty quickly became a frown. Something behind that curiously thoughtful expression made put him on the alert. Something had just occurred to Watson, and it was something very important to him. Much to Holmes' disappointment, he still did not turn away from the window. Normally when uncertain of his friend's humor, Watson would carefully gauge his reaction by searching Holmes' expression. Today he only wiped the expression from his face and sighed heavily.

"What do you want, Mr. Holmes?" Watson finally asked, just as Holmes was about to apologize for his inappropriate sense of humor.

Taken aback by the direct question laced with weariness and the use of his title, Holmes couldn't help but sigh in defeat himself. He had wondered how this would play out, and such a coolly direct question was not one he had hoped. In response, though, he knew he had to be as direct, or Watson would not accept him any other way.

With some trepidation he started, "I was wondering—if you were up to it, of course—whether you're ready to come home."

By the time he finished there was a tremor in his voice even he could not deny. There was a carefully concealed sense of almost unspeakable fear that he would again be met with a harsh rejection. Though he knew it was no less than he deserved, he could not stop his mind internally cringing away in fear of Watson's response. To his surprise, however, Watson did finally turn to face him. The combination of guarded hope tainted with wariness was one that made his heart twist all the more painfully. Rejection could not have hurt as much as the hope he saw in those bright green eyes. It was a measure of how badly Holmes had hurt him that the man was even wary of such an offer; as if he no longer belonged there in those rooms on Baker Street. Not for the first time that day, Holmes wondered if there was anything _could _do to rectify the situation.

_Home._

Holmes could almost hear the word ringing through his friend's thoughts, as if he doubted to ever think of Baker Street as home again. Silently, he forced himself to meet Watson's questioning gaze steadily and nod just slightly. After a moment Watson's gaze transformed from one of hope and wariness to consideration. From consideration it darkened considerably, and Holmes knew he had made his decision.

"Very well, then," Watson replied levelly. "So long as it gets me out of here."

This less than encouraging answer was still more than he had any right to expect. Hiding his own rising hope, he lifted the bag he had set beside the chair. "Good. I took the liberty of bringing you some clothes. I'll go fetch a cab."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," Watson said, rather stiffly.

Not stopping to puzzle out Watson's reply, Holmes hurried out of the room. He knew it would take a while since his friend was not likely to be able to dress himself, so he notified a passing nurse on his way out. His thoughts continued to tumble around mercilessly as he waited in the cold, crisp air outside the hospital. His attempts to analyze every nuance of his recent conversation seemed to keep tripping over his attempts to plan out his next actions. For now, the most important hurdle had already been cleared. He has greatly feared Watson would not agree to come back. Had such been the case, a housekeeper and new set of rooms somewhere would have been swiftly setup. Holmes had no intention of leaving Watson here alone in this place to recover. Now that that part was over with, he would need to carefully find out if Watson would accept his help, or if he would need to contact Dr. Cummings down the street to assist. Holmes was under no illusion that Watson's numerous injuries were going to heal swiftly, and his friend would not be in any condition to tend to them himself.

Holmes, himself, did not for one moment doubt it had been a miracle that saved his friend's life—more than once—since this miserable business began. But he was at a loss for what do next. For now, he focused on getting Watson back where he belonged. Once safely ensconced back in his room at Baker Street, at least there would be opportunities. Maybe Mrs. Hudson...

Holmes took hold of himself. Speculation on his part at this point would only further frustrate him. For once in his life he had to relinquish control and accept the fact that this was Watson's game now. He would have to decide the next move when and if he felt up to it. The one thing he did know for a certainty was that he would accept Watson's decision whatever it may be. So long as he was alive, there was always a chance for something more.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Chapter Fourteen**

Watson was pale and trembling by the time they reached Baker Street. The combination of injuries pained him all the more for the ride in the cab. Though it was thankfully swift, he had to repress visible expressions of each and every bump and turn. He knew Holmes was watching, and he had no desire to make his friend all the more uncomfortable for his helplessness. Besides, short of sedating himself, there really had been no other way to accomplish this task. And he was more than willing to jump at the opportunity to escape the confines of the hospital for the privacy of his own room once more where he could resume his thinking.

The idea Holmes had spawned in his mind had taken hold, though. All that remained was for him to recover enough to put it into action. After this ride back to Baker Street, he had to admit he wasn't ready yet. The idea of climbing two flights of stairs was daunting. Putting his head down, the took them one at a time, determined to do so on his own. When he paused on the landing so close to the sitting room door, Holmes helped to sit him down carefully. Holmes' face was a mask Watson could not find the mental power to penetrate. For one heartbeat he entertained the idea of his chair before a warm fire in the sitting room.

_Maybe some day, _he thought to himself sadly.

In the meantime, it was not fair to Holmes that he take up residence in the sitting room even if the offer was made. Frowning and shaking his head to wordlessly decline the offer, Watson heaved himself to his feet once more and resumed his trek up the second flight of stairs. Holmes' carefully neutral expression never changed. Watson allowed him to hover only until he reached his own door. Then, he quietly closed that door behind him before stumbling the last few steps to all but collapse upon the bed.

Holmes stood outside the closed door, his heart sinking. He had hoped Watson would accept the offer of his own room or even the sitting room. Stubborn man that he was, however, Holmes was not entirely surprised when Watson's response was to push himself painfully up the stairs. When Watson closed the door, he waited listening long enough to ensure Watson had actually made it to the bed.

"Go, I'll take care of him," Mrs. Hudson spoke at his shoulder making him start.

Holmes just nodded, before retreating to the quiet safety of the lonely sitting room.

~o~o~o~

Watson was amused, but not surprised when Mrs. Hudson let herself in only moments after he'd managed to acquire a sitting position on the bed. While undressing himself was not impossible, it was going to be painful and time consuming. On the so very rare occasions when either himself or Holmes had needed assistance, they had usually done so for each other. He hadn't exactly thought of that before closing the door on Holmes.

Mrs. Hudson was an old campaigner by this point. With her she had brought bandages, hot water, and other such items needed to make the doctor as comfortable as possible. She set the items out on the desk, as he noticed a stack of large, green books were already occupying the table beside his bed. Before he had a chance to inspect them, Mrs. Hudson had planted herself firmly in his line of sight. She gave him no opportunity to protest, and he knew she would accept none as she helped him carefully remove first his clothing and then the mass of bandages underneath. She silently helped him care for his wounds before settling him into bed, a mass of pillows propping him almost upright.

"I will be back in a few minutes with some soup. Here is some powder Dr. Cummings said you were to take to let you rest, and a glass of water."

With those instructions given, she was gone. Watson grinned slightly wondering exactly when it was the woman had decided she was his mother. He supposed it probably went all the way back to when he and Holmes had first moved in. Afterall, only a mother would have put up with so much from tenants and not left them on the street. Chuckling to himself, he recalled that even mothers would likely not have put up with some of their antics.

After downing the glass of water with rather horrid tasting powder he had come to recognize all too well, Watson looked around for something to occupy himself when his eyes fell again on the stack of half a dozen books on his table. Fingering the worn, old green leather of the cover, he realized that these were journals. They were rather larger than he was accustomed to seeing, but they were not familiar to him. Flipping open the cover of the first, his eyes fell on the name inside. It was a signature scrawl he knew so well, written by a familiar hand so very many years ago it seemed.

Closing the cover, the journal unread, he set it back on the stack. Moments later Mrs. Hudson reappeared with a steaming bowl of some of the most delicious soup he could ever recall having had. Complimenting her cooking, he surprised even himself by eating almost the entire bowl. Of course, having the woman perch on the edge of his bed to ensure he ate until he _she_ was satisfied probably didn't hurt, either. As she took the bowl and rose from his bedside, he concealed a wince of pain as he reached over to pick up the stack of journals.

"Mrs. Hudson, would you be so kind as to return these to Mr. Holmes? I believe he has misplaced them," he requested pointedly.

He wondered if that was a flash of disappointment he saw in her soft brown eyes. But, she didn't hesitate as she took them from his outstretched hands. He had no need to wonder what he would do next to pass the hours as he soon found himself sleeping peacefully for the first time in quite a while.

~o~o~o~

Holmes' already sinking heart crashed through the floor as Mrs. Hudson quietly placed his journals on the sitting room table. She said not a word as she retreated back downstairs. He knew by now Watson would be sleeping, but even if he wasn't there was no point. He had made his position clear. He did not intend any further association with the man that had so poorly used him all these years. Holmes knew he would just have to accept that.

It was a matter of moments for his eyes to locate once more the Moroccan case.

~o~o~o~

The next morning Holmes found himself again lounging around the sitting room, wishing his Watson was there to share breakfast. Watson's rejection had been painful, but he knew he deserved it. But he still entertained the idea of going up there later and saying something, anything. But, stubborn as that seemingly fragile man was, Holmes he would accomplish nothing by doing so.

With these thoughts to occupy his mind, the morning papers and post held no interest. His breakfast sat untouched on the table, despite Mrs. Hudson's sniff of disapproval. Most depressing of all was his morning coffee and pipe did nothing to soothe him as he curled up in his chair by the fire. Lost in these thoughts, he almost didn't hear the stumbling step on the stair that made his head whip around so fast it crackled threateningly. Before he'd even had a chance to launch himself out of the chair, the sitting room door opened to reveal a somewhat unsteady Watson. He had carefully dressed himself and appeared ready for the day. Holmes moved to help him across the room and into his chair, but Watson rebuffed the attempt as he stubbornly forced his rigidly straight back and wobbling legs to comply.

"Stubborn as ever, I see. You must be recovering nicely, then," Holmes commented as he poured a cup of coffee for his "guest".

"I am, and thank you," Watson replied sincerely.

He sipped his own coffee as Holmes settled himself into the chair across from him. The scene would have been comfortingly familiar had Holmes' expression not been one tainted with wary concern as he eyed his friend critically. Finally Watson seemed to have settled enough to be ready to speak.

"Not unlike yourself, I too, had the pleasure of sharing rooms with a fellow. He had some rather odd eccentricities, as I recall, but was otherwise an amiable enough gentleman."

Cocking an eyebrow curiously, Holmes hid his concerns regarding Watson's possible head injuries.

"It would seem much has changed for both of us, and a fresh start might be in order. It was you who once said it is best to know the worst about a fellow lodger before making agreements. I agree with that sentiment.

"My name is Dr. John Watson. I am lazy, keep irregular hours, tend to get calls for my services at ungodly hours of the night, and dislike rows. I spend far too much time writing florid and romanticized tales of my friend, a Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and have even had the audacity to publish a few. I tend to consider it my domain to see to the health of those around me, even when they disagree with my advice. I have little to occupy my time at present, but I will be working on that. I have another set of vices when I'm well, but those are the principal ones at present."

Holmes' face had run a gauntlet of emotions so surprisingly open that Watson wondered for a moment if this could really be the same man he'd met all those year ago who he had once accused of being an unfeeling automaton. He now knew otherwise, but even this was more than he had expected. The approving, brightly lit smile that finally settled on that familiar face was one that lit those gray eyes. It warmed his heart with a joy he had never thought he would feel again.

* * *

_**A/N:** ~collapses with relief~ It's over! Yay! Maybe now I can finally get some sleep as a reward from my muses. ~lol~ __At least until they start pestering me about Part III. However, I will give a hint that Part III is essentially done. Just needs a little polishing and I can toss it up here. I believe it is much, much shorter than these first two. It will be a continuation, yes; but it will also be something of an interlude, as well._

_A very heartfelt thank you to each and every one of you that reviewed thus far. I greatly appreciate the feedback and the help that has been given. This thing is eating my soul one chapter at a time. Keeping everyone in character is turning out to be easier than I thought, but I tend to lose focus on other things. So any details I've missed or mangled, please feel free to point them out to me and I will be sure to correct them._


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